


They Call her Dawnbreaker

by Huntinga



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark Have a Good Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sansa turned out way more Sophie Turner than I intended, a little bit angsty, everyone has grown and changed, tv canon unfortunately, y'know what fuck canon I do what I want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 121,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntinga/pseuds/Huntinga
Summary: After 4 years, the Seven Kingdoms are settling into a relative peace. Gendry has learned how to be a Lord, the Queen in the North is powerful and loved by her people, and King Bran has rebuilt King's Landing. The realm is healing, but there are many questions left unanswered.When Arya Stark returns, she reopens old wounds and is confronted with the consequences of her choices. With her family back together and no battles imminent, Arya has to rebuild the bridges she burned and make up for all the time she lost. What Arya found in the Western Sea will change Westeros forever, and not everyone will be happy that Arya is back.The peace is threatened and the future once again depends on the Starks.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Bran Stark, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Davos Seaworth & Gendry Waters, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Gendry Waters
Comments: 171
Kudos: 368





	1. Four Years Later

#  **Chapter 1: Four Years Later**

Gendry had wondered all his life:  _ “what is it that Lords do all day?”  _ Over the years, he’d learned that they mostly just talked. They wrote to people if they were too far away to talk to, and they made a show of not talking to  _ certain people _ , and they ate, too, but they used feasting as an opportunity for more talking. Talk was the weapon of Lords, it was their trade, their art. They seemed to make a game of it, seeing who could use the most words, the biggest words, who could lie without lying, who could conceive the most roundabout way to make their point and they called that proper.

In Fleabottom, though, people didn’t talk much at all. People did things. They talked just enough to get what they needed, and then they shut up. Why waste 3 words when one would do? Breath is precious when you die young. Gendry supposed that this was the difference starving to death made. The hours held a lot less consequence if you knew you’d get to eat at the end of the day, if you knew you had a home to go back to, if you knew anything at all was guaranteed for you. He’d fought for his life, in Fleabottom. Every day from the day his mother died, he couldn’t even remember her face, he'd been so young. He had fought hunger, he fought other children, he fought to work harder, be better, be stronger than anyone else so his master wouldn't go out and get some other apprentice. He’s been so lucky to get that post, so he worked until his hands were bloody and burned if it would help him keep it. That hadn’t saved him then,Tobho still sold him to the Night’s Watch. Now he could have slept soundly knowing he was secured by his blood and his name to this castle as if by an anchor, and that no one could come and take that from him. For the first time in his life, he had something that was his by right and his to defend. He would have slept soundly, with that knowledge, if he slept at all. 

This night, like every night, he listened to the rain whip at his windows, listened to the crashing of the waves on Shipbreaker’s Bay. The storms always rolled in late in the afternoon bringing all the fury of the sea with them. He shut his eyes tightly, willing sleep to come, but his lack of sight only amplified the wind and the waves until that sound was all there was to hear. Some nights the wind reminded him of the hiss of air passing through the throat of a screeching wight, and some nights it reminded him of the sounds of the dying, their voices too ragged and scared to even scream properly. Some nights he shot up in his bed, leaving a shadow of sweat on the sheets, his body and clothing soaked through with terror. These nights were preferable to the nights he spent imagining the bow of a ship carved into a massive direwolf colliding violently with the rocks, breaking the boat in two and sending the crew plunging into the freezing water. In those dreams he would see her as he last saw her, the scar on her forehead still pink and new, her hair floating wildly around her head as she sank, her eyes wide with terror, her furs dragging her down into the black until he couldn’t see the grey of her eyes anymore. 

This night, however, he dreamed a new nightmare. He saw her as he had the first day they met. Her hair was chopped short and ragged, some parts cut so close to her head he could see the white of it, some chunks longer, but all of it sticking straight out around her. The sight might have amused him if it wasn’t for the rest of her. Her wrists were so small, her bones birdlike and hollow, her eyes took up half her face, they were so wide and so sad. She looked like she’d been crying, her eyes were red and swollen, she looked dirty and she looked alone. In his dream she wasn’t threatening a group of boys, though. She was laying on a beach in the dead of night, surrounded by broken boards and broken bodies. Her clothing was soaked through and she vomited seawater into the sand. Just as she coughed and sputtered to life, crawling forward on her skinny little arms, the tide overtook her and she was dragged back into the sea, clawing at the sand which only gave way. He felt his own lungs burn as he imagined hers must. He saw her kick, he saw her scream only to bring more burning salt into her lungs, he saw her feet try to grip at the sand and catch her footing, and he saw her slip and be pulled deeper and further by the strong current. He saw her limbs grow slack, saw her hand reach out towards him, so tiny and pale, and then he saw the light leave her eyes. They didn’t close, but watched him as the currents whipped her limp body around, eventually spitting her up onto the sand where, in the distance, silhouetted against the sky, he saw the lights of Storm’s End.

He woke, shuddering and sobbing. He rubbed his face hard with both hands, trying to scrub away the sleep and the tears. He had to check, to be sure the nightmare wasn’t some sort of warning. 

‘ _ I’ve seen stranger magic’  _ he told himself as he shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering to lace them. He did not bring a candle nor did he don a cloak as he ran down the steps of the tower, circling, circling downward so fast it made his head spin. Once he reached the bottom of the long staircase, he ran out into the courtyard, past the forge and past his guards. They were sleeping, and they didn’t see him as he sprinted, taking the sandy hills in long strides down and down until he reached the beach. 

‘ _ A candle wouldn’t have done any good anyway,’  _ he thought, while the rain pelted him sideways. He was soaked through to his smallclothes long before he reached the beach. He narrowed his eyes against the wind and stinging rain, but the beach was clear. There were no bodies, no shattered, splintering wood, nothing but the foaming sea and a horizon illuminated by the first tinge of dawn. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He wasn’t, really. Hope is a funny thing, though. A cruel, funny thing. His walk back to the castle was slow, and he savored the feeling of rain on his skin despite the way it hurt. The hurt of the cold and the wind reminded him of the stinging snows of the North, and he missed that pain sometimes. The rain had washed the trails of salt from his face and the redness of his eyes could be attributed to the wind if anyone bothered to ask. Everyone already thought him so odd there was no need giving the servants or his lesser lords more to gossip about. Did they need more? They all talked plenty already.

He made his way back through the castle gates, careful not to wake the sleeping guards. He tiptoed up the winding stairs, wincing at the water running off him. Not dripping, but running in streams like he had brought his own stormcloud inside to follow him and flood the floor. He said a silent apology to the poor maid, and promised himself to give her a personal thanks for her work today. Maybe new clothes? No, that would only start tongues wagging that the lowborn bastard playing at Lord was pawing at the maids, he would just give her a raise. For her diligence and dedication to his house. Yes, that suited. 

These days, it seemed every action Gendry took was carefully examined and thought out. He’d never had to do that before, and it took some hard learning to get used to. If he left dinner early, what would they assume would be the reason? If he was seen re-entering his own bedchamber at dawn, what would they say? If he drank ale instead of Dornish red wine, would they presume it due to politics? If he ate soup instead of boar, would they think him a poor hunter? If he turned down another proposal, would they ask questions? He knew the answer to the last. He had heard the songs, he knew what they called him. 

‘ _ The Lonely Lord’ _ he spat aloud, sitting down hard on his bed and removing his boots. He said the name as if he didn’t feel it to be true. As if he weren’t lonely. As if he hadn’t gone cloaked, face covered, into a nearby tavern to hear the song and stare silently into his ale. He always sat in the corner, not facing the bard as he sang, sweetly and sad, his voice breaking with emotion accompanied by the strumming of his instrument. Gendry sat back on his bed, closed his eyes, and remembered the tune:

_ “My lover you have done me wrong,  _

_ But even so I could never change my mind.  _

_ I loved you once, I loved you true _

_ I loved you then, today, and tomorrow, too. _

_ You said it back to me, not so long ago, _

_ And yet you left me on my own _

_ Honey please, try to love me,  _

_ honey please, honey try.  _

_ My love for you will never die, _

_ But without you here with me I might. _

_ Honey, lover of mine, please come back and see what I’ve done, _

_ The Stag, the Lord, the man I have become. _

_ Come see and stay with me, one night or forever. _

_ Honey please, try to forgive me, honey please, honey try.  _

_ I couldn’t say my heart's loving words as I wanted, _

_ not when they counted, but I sing them out now and I hope they reach you,  _

_ honey hear me, honey try.  _

_ When you return to me, can we return to how we once were, _

_ Just as it was, love,  _

_ before the others came, _

_ before the darkness knew our names.  _

_ Hear me over the storms, honey please, honey try.  _

_ You loved me but left me alone _

_ to one day return to my side _

_ So I wait here for you, diligent and true. _

_ There can be no other for me, not after I've known you _

_ The angry sky is half as powerful as my lover, the nights are half as cold.  _

_ The sea stretches half as far as we, and is half as beautiful as she.  _

_ Hear my pleas, and try to love me, honey please, honey try.” _

_ \--- _

Shocking, how many things a bard could guess and get right. Other than all the “honeys”, which,  _ Oh, Gods _ , Gendry wouldn’t dare, the song rang true in his ears and sparked memories he had hoped to bury. At first Gendry thought the bard knew something he shouldn’t and that’s why he sang of the angry sea and the time before the others came. The bard knew nothing, though, other than that the lonely lord lived by the sea, had fought the others, and never entertained the idea of suitors. 

Gendry made the mistake, once, of sending a rebuttal when Lord Blackwood asked him to host his Lady daughter for dinner. Gendry had not wanted to offend the poor girl, and not wanted to pretend at anything, so he wrote back to Lord Blackwood that he would not dishonor his daughter so. Gendry had already had his true love but lost her and the Gods were never so generous to grant two in a lifetime. Gendry followed that his daughter was likely a lovely girl who deserved to marry for love, and that he would not rob her of that future joy. His honesty betrayed him, though, and soon rumors started about the lost love of the Lonely Lord of Westeros. It seemed that every chattering maiden in the Kingdom wanted to know what woman could break a man’s spirit thusly. Gendry did not enjoy being the subject of a romantic mystery. He knew she’d hate it, maybe enough to never come back. 

\---

The sun had risen in earnest, now, and Gendry’s clothing had begun to dry and stiffen. As he stood, the salt starched clothing didn’t move with him and crunched uncomfortably. He stripped it all off and placed it carefully in the basket. He was always careful not to leave too much of a mess for others to clean. Just having a chambermaid made him uncomfortable, so he tried to make her job as easy as possible. He stretched and gathered clean clothes. He pulled his breeches over the scar on his thigh where he’d been stabbed in the muscle by a dead thing crawling up him. He hadn’t felt it until they all fell down around him, dead as they ought to be. The scar was an angry red, and raised enough to feel through breeches. He certainly felt the wound, now. He felt the injury throb every time it rained, which was every damn day in the Stormlands. As he was buttoning his tunic, a knock came at the door. 

“Come in” he called out, still working at the top buttons. Maester Jurne walked in and frowned to find Gendry still dressing. The Maester had scolded him several times about being lazy with his appearance. Coming to dinner covered in soot from the forge was unbecoming of a lord, as was standing barefoot with half his shirt open, hair unbrushed. 

“Good morning, My Lord” was the reply. There was always so much more, there, lurking under the politeness. Disappointment? Gendry was never sure.

“What’ve you got there?” Gendry asked, gesturing with his chin towards the pile of papers the Maester carried, knowing full well what they were. 

“Your Ravens, My Lord. From the Bannermen and from the Capitol.” Gendry cocked an eyebrow.

“The Capitol? From the King or someone else?” The old man shrugged.

“I don’t know, My Lord. You stopped needing help reading the ravens years ago, and so I stopped reading them for you.” he said, as he passed the pile to Gendry. 

Gendry tried not to sigh, he really did. But he was tired, and he was sore, and the pile was thick and sure to be boring. All the same, he sighed heavily as he slid into the chair by the fire, setting the pile on the side table to sort through one by one. He left the one sealed with the crown’s seal till last, slipping it to the bottom of the pile. He knew it would prove to be the most interesting, and that he would be loathe to do the rest once he had read it. Maester Jurne took his leave, closing the door quietly behind him. Picking up the first letter, Gendry sighed again. A petty dispute between landed knights about whose cattle were whose. The Knights had returned from helping rebuild King’s Landing to find that their herds had mixed and bred. Now one of them wants to keep the offspring and the other finds that unfair. Gendry wanted to tell them to stop being children, but he ordered them to split the group of newborns and young ones and each take half, if there were a pregnant cow or an odd number, one would take it and give the other milk from it for a year or half the meat if it were butchered. He set down the response to dry, starting another pile for the finished ones.

He worked through them all similarly, but not all were so petty. A villager wrote and asked for more patrols in the woods near them, as bandits and thieves had taken to the woods when the Stormlands sat without a Lord, unprotected. Granted, and he would send a Knight to stay with the village and ensure their safety until the bandits were caught. A minor lord wrote that his daughter was going to marry some other minor lord and requested Gendry’s presence. Sure, fine. He’d have to learn their names first, and that was annoying. He hadn’t had a Maester to teach him the houses, their banners, and their members as a child, so now he felt so awkward around them all.  _ “And who are you again? Never heard of you. What house? Huh?”  _ Finally, as the sun approached midday and Gendry’s stomach began to rumble, he reached the final parchment. The wax seal snapped cleanly, a crack right through the middle of the crown stamped upon it. Opening it, he was hoping to find news from a friend, Brienne or Davos, maybe. Instead he found an order.

“ _ Lord Gendry Baratheon.  _

_ Your presence is demanded in King’s Landing in a week’s time. This time will be sufficient for your travel if you leave no later than midday the day after you receive my letter. Upon your arrival, there will be rooms for you in the Red Keep, and you will stay there as my guest. _

  
  


_ While this is a friendly invitation, please do not mistake it for an optional one.  _

_ Regards, _

_ King Brandon Stark, first of his name _

_ King of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” _

“Best get to packing then” Gendry muttered, already at it. He knew better than to question the King, not because he was the King, but because he could see everything that is or ever was. Not really worth the questions, you just sort of did as you were told and then figured out the why of it later on, if he felt like telling you. He was growing anxious, though. A summons was rarely a good thing, and if the King knew  _ everything,  _ Gendry had cause to worry. 

He packed way more than would be necessary on a regular trip. His finest feastware, his grungy soot-stained forging clothes, his riding clothes, his armour, one of everything. How does one pack when you have no idea what event you're packing for? Or how long you’ll be gone? He found Maester Jurne in the Library and briefed him on the letter from the king. The maester would make plans to secure the horses, the men, and the supplies for the short trip down the Kingsroad to King’s Landing. 

  
With his duties as Lord fulfilled early, Gendry was free to do as he pleased with the rest of his day, and what he pleased was to hit something. The silence of polite and plotting Lords hurt his ears far worse that the singing of steel ever had, and he never felt as comfortable as he did when in the forge. He smiled at the familiar stinging heat as he entered. Pulling off his tunic, he set to work. He didn’t have an item in mind when he started, and his mind raced with questions as he worked.  _ “What does the King want? Did every Lord get this summons or just me? Does it have anything to do with  _ her _? Does he know? Why now? If he were mad about that it'd come up years ago, wouldn't it?”  _ Gendry let his mind race as he worked, Questions turning to memories, and memories turning to regrets as he slammed down on the warmed steel, pounding it until all his thoughts subsided. When he finally plunged the blade into the water to temper the steel, he was surprised to find that the blade he forged was long and thin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work on here! I've been writing it for a while for a friend, but I decided to just post it and see what happens. I have a whole plot planned, start to finish. I have put a lot of work into world building re: what's out West and I'm really excited for you all to see it! Please leave feedback, comments, anything!
> 
> P.S. I have like 8 more chapters already written that I can drop if people actually like this and want more.


	2. One way to Find Out

Gendry had left the forge for his evening meal long after the moon rose, and the moment he sat down to eat he felt the ache of exhaustion creep onto him. In King’s landing this feeling would put him to sleep as soon as his head hit his cot, but now, even in a wide featherbed, he could not sleep. His eyes closed, but the dead waited on the other side of his lids. All the people he knew in King’s Landing appeared to him with skin like burned bacon and broken bodies, crushed by flying rubble. The half-siblings he had never met all appeared to him as tiny tufts of black hair on shattered skulls, littering streets that long ago burned. The Northmen, the Dothraki, and the Unsullied all appeared as ripped furs and bloody flesh. Teeth and nails and swords alike had ripped into their bodies and tore them open, glistening blood and bone stark against the pale snow. His cousin, Shireen, came to him, too. Always in Davos’s arms, always a burnt and twisted thing, tiny and weightless as he held her, looking more like a bundle of scorched twigs than a girl. Davos always looked at him with rage and regret in these dreams. If he had just let the Red Witch burn Gendry for her magic she wouldn’t have needed to burn the child. Shireen was dead because Davos had let Gendry live. Davos had never said it, he never would, he’d never even think it, but that knowledge sat there in the back of Gendry’s mind, waiting for him when his other thoughts slowed enough for it to bubble to the surface. She had been kind and good, Gendry knew, and he knew that he was not. Not enough. He looked all his dead in their glassy eyes, or where their eyes ought to be, and he knew it should be him. It wasn’t, and he was grateful, but he found no joy in it.

He could have died happy in the Battle for the Dawn. He’d had everything, then. He’d felt love, he’d had revenge, he’d had honor. He could have died a happy man but the Gods are not so generous. Their gifts are a double-edged sword, and Gendry knew precisely how dangerous those were in careless, clumsy hands. As he basked in the glow of living after the battle was won, the cost of it sunk deeper into him than any blade could. He lost the only woman he ever truly loved, and by his own stupidity. He thought that hurt was the worst because he couldn’t fight it. He’d have fought another army of White Walkers to get her back, he’d fight a God to bring her back, it didn’t matter which one. He’d do anything to get her safely home if she were taken from him, but he had made her run off. He had done it, and it would make her run further if he gave chase. So he waited, alone. Not for her, he’d long given up hope for that. He waited for death. He wouldn’t bring it on himself, though he’d thought about it in the first year, before the castle was manned and rebuilt. Back when he had been the Lord of nothing, a pile of rubble and cold stone, he had sometimes looked on a newly forged blade and held it to his chest to test the sharpness of the point, but he could never bring it in. That was too quick, and too cowardly a death for him. Gendry had given up hope that he would ever again be happy, a hope he had been slowly building back. He had fallen into a darkness within himself that he didn’t know existed. He’d always been alone, almost always, but he had never felt as lonely as he did that first year in Storm’s End. But, as the landed knights came trickling back from the war, the smallfolk began to rebuild, and the castle was lit and living, he crawled out of the darkness to meet it. He decided to try, to try to be a good Lord and try to be fair and just. He decided to live his own life for the people who lived, as a vigil for the fallen. He waited to meet death as an old man, his days spent creating something better. He didn't desire a family anymore, as he had when he was young. He had the Stormlands, and he had the people to see to. In the daylight, he was alright. He spoke to people, he smiled, he trained, and he did the Lordly talking, he forged, he rebuilt, he befriended the smallfolk and the staff, and he laughed sometimes. 

The night before he set out for King’s Landing, Gendry’s thoughts drifted towards the last time he had seen the King. His coronation had been a small affair, just the High Lords in the drafty, crumbling throne room with the broken windows and the melted pile of swords that had once been the Iron Throne. Luckily King Bran had no need of a throne as he had brought his own chair. Next to him, on either side, his sisters stood. Sansa was a Queen, then, and she looked it. She stood tall and didn’t look away from anyone, meeting everyone in the eyes as if issuing a challenge. They always looked down first. On Bran’s other side, s _ he  _ had looked uncomfortable just by being there, although her face never betrayed it, her feet shifted weight to one side or the other like she was getting ready to fight. Or to run.. Her hand on her small dagger the whole time, she scanned the room continuously, never looking straight at anyone. Not that he expected her to look at him. Hoped, maybe. Jon hadn’t been there, already on his way to the Wall. Gendry expected that he and Tormund had been quick to find each other and then quick to find trouble, and he didn’t spare much worry for Jon Snow. The next night there had been a feast to celebrate the peace and the start of the rebuilding, but she hadn’t been there. It was just Queen Sansa and King Bran, sitting next to each other and talking sadly amongst themselves. 

That had been that last time Gendry laid eyes on a Stark. They’d all gone their separate ways after that. Although Gendry left several bannermen to assist in the rebuilding, including Davos and Brienne, he could not bear to stay in King’s Landing himself. He’d walked by Tobho Mott’s shop on the Street of Steel, just to find a pile of ash and crumbled brick. He’d walked past the orphanage he’d lived before the smithy and found the roof gone, the children gone, and their toys scorched by dragonflame. He’d left that same day, to Storm’s End for the very first time and felt no relief upon arrival. 

Tomorrow he would go back to that place where he was born, where he grew up, where he hid. It had been all white ash and melted stone and the reek of death the last time he saw it. Gendry had no idea what to expect, and he was frightened. He had grown to find more and more small joys in life, lately, and worried that the wounds just beginning to heal would be ripped open anew. Gendry worried silently at the ceiling for hours, until, sometime more morning than night, sleep took him over. A few hours rest and then the sun woke him, along with the commotion below his window. He was still tired, but he was always tired. He met the men in the courtyard, the horses ready and things packed the night prior, and he rode off to meet the King’s summons.

Gendry brought his three favorite, most loyal men. Ser Rory, a landed knight, was a kind man with five children, the eldest only just celebrated their ten and second nameday. The hoard of them would crash about the castle, the sound of play swords colliding and laughter following them everywhere they went. Such a happy childhood it was for them. The younger ones would be too young to remember hunger and war, and Gendry hoped he could keep them from ever seeing it again. Rory’s squire, Renn, was only ten and eight but had proven himself fighting against the Lannister army years earlier. He started fighting at only ten and three, and he’d killed more men than years he’d lived. He was still just a boy, though. He was fostered by Rory and his wife, and had grown up with the smaller ones. Artan, the final man riding in the rear, was Gendry’s chief armorer and closest friend. Gendry had been offended when advised to get an armorer, his work was plenty good, why would he need another? It had proven nice, though, to pass off the repairing and horseshoes to someone else and work on only what he wanted. The two of them had spent countless hours in the forge together, crafting and talking. Well, Gendry crafting and Artan talking. Not the Lord’s polite talking, the bawdy, vulgar peasant type. Gendry liked to listen to Artan tell his stories about steel and girls and travels. Artan was a good smith, but not so good as Gendry. His real skill lay in telling tales. That may have been why Gendry chose him and kept him around. Artan could make anything into a tale fit for a bard, and he never shut up.

“... and the fucker just walks in, you know how the Lannisters used to walk? Chins up and swinging arms like a big cock in a bath house?” Artan started in as Gendry approached. “He shoves me up against the wall, right. Lifts my ass clear up off the floor by my shirt, my little feet just fucking kicking at air. ‘ _ Gimme my fucking helm’  _ the cunt yells, but I don’t have it, right? He put the order in the day before, ain’t my fault he waited too late to order. Now he didn’t like that, no, m’lord he did not. Threatened to have me flogged, he did. Gelded, even. So I’m not keen to risk my nice nether parts for any fucking helm, I just had to get it done and get the fucker out me fucking forge, yeah? I’m workin’ as soon as he leaves, and it takes me all night. Couldn’t even leave to piss. I’d just wait till the metal was heatin’ and piss in a bucket. Now-a-days I don’t drink so much ale now as I used to, m’lord, but then I drank enough that by morning that piss bucket was full up to the brim. I was so fucking tired. Swinging iron all night, no sleep, little drunk, I couldn’t think straight. So I dunked the helm, m’lord, quenched the thing right in the piss- don’t laugh, the smell ‘bout killed me. I wish it had, I had maybe minutes before the Lannister soldier came back for it, and I had to think quick. I dunked it in the cleaner water and I scrubbed it clean as best I could. I met the fucker outside, there ye could barely smell it. He was so pleased, m’lord! Proclaimed it the best damn helm he’d ever seen, showed it off to the others and he paid me well! And then off he went, the piss helm on his ol’ piss head, nose up, thinking he looked mighty fine.”

“What’d you do about the smell?” Gendry asked as they started down the King’s Road.

“Moved fuckin’ shop, m’lord.” 

***

They never made camp, not really. They rode until they couldn’t see, then they slept on their furs in the dirt and carried on as soon as the light struck them in the morning, stopping only to water the horses. They ate their fruit and dried meat as they rode.. 

“Whad’ya suppose the King wants?” Artan asked around the food in his mouth.

“Only one way to find out.” Gendry replied, though he too had been wondering.

“We are riding hard and long, m’lord” Ser Rory said. “May be that we reach the city earlier than anticipated.”

“The King is a magic all-seer, I think we are gonna get there right when he thinks we will.” Gendry shrugged. 

“Can’e really?” Artan asked, leaning forward on his horse to look Gendry in the face.

“You doubt the king?” Gendry said, turning to meet his eye.

“No, not really. Just it’s an odd thing, innit?. Does he see everything? All the time? Can he see two things at the same time or just one by one? How far can he look, around the world, even? Can he see things he doesn’t know to look for? Could he see a man he’s never met in a place he’s never been? It’s to do with those trees, right? But those are only in Westeros. Does that mean he can’t see elsewhere?” Artan wondered, his head starting to hurt.

“Fuck if I know!” Gendry answered loudly. “But maybe if you keep talking he’ll hear you and you’ll find out.”

Artan shut his mouth. For a minute.

“D’ye think he watches people piss?” he whispered, brows twisted together as he looked forward at nothing, looking truly concerned about the possibility. Gendry just sighed. The light had dwindled to barely anything. 

“We stop here.” he ordered, pulling up on the reigns of his horse. “How much further, Ser Rory?” Rory stopped his horse at the top of a nearby hill.

“By my eye, if we leave at dawn, we will reach the city gates shortly after midday” Ser Rory called down. 

“Good. Be ready to ride at dawn.” Gendry said, tying his horse to a tree and laying out the furs he’s been sitting on. He laid down and closed his eyes, pressing his body into the furs, savoring the heat they’d pulled from the horse’s back. The others made their bedrolls, too. Renn kicked off his boots and chucked one at Artan, who had only just closed his eyes.

“FUCK-” he yelped at it hit him square in the stomach. “M’lord, the little shit-”

“Don’t bother the Lord about it.” Ser Rory ordered. He turned to Renn with one finger out, accusing-like. “And you behave yourself.” Renn lowered the other boot, but didn’t lower his smirk.

“He started it.” 

“I didn’t start shit. I didn’t do shit.” Artan said, defensive.

“Prove ya didn’t.” Renn laughed, laying back.

“Shut IT.” Ser Rory hissed at them, hands on his hips, now, looking more exasperated father than intimidating knight. Gendry smiled to himself, sleeping half decently to the sounds of Renn and Artan bickering well into the night. He didn’t know why it was comforting, just was.


	3. King's Orders

The small group rode around the walls of the city far from the Iron Gate, which was closest to Fleabottom and the only city gate that Gendry was familiar with. They had left through the Iron Gate on their way to the Wall a lifetime ago. Now he took the King’s Gate, close enough to the cliffs to smell the sea and feel the salt crust their hair, and the closest gate to the Red Keep.

“LORD GENDRY BARATHEON APPROACHING.” Ser Rory called up to the guards, his voice boomed with authority but calm and without a hint of anger. Gendry thought it sounded the same as the voice he used on his children when they were getting out of hand. 

The guards immediately jumped to their feet and opened the gate as swiftly as they could manage. To his memory, the guards were lazy shits who didn’t even run for the King, so Gendry didn’t know if it was his name or Rory’s voice that made them actually work, but he was grateful for Rory in that moment. 

“You three go find yourselves an inn and some ale” Gendry ordered, sounding more like an offer.

“You’re going alone, My Lord?” Ser Rory questioned.

“The Starks are my best allies.” Gendry answered. “They aren’t likely to poison my wine.” Ser Rory looked unconvinced. “If I need you, I will send for you, but I have nothing to fear from House Stark.” Gendry added, hoping his words would still be true after today.

“I know an inn right off the Hook” Artan offered. “That way we’ll be close if ye need send fer us.” Gendry nodded, and he rode off toward the Red Keep without his men.

\---

The Red Keep wasn’t all red anymore. All the pieces of stone destroyed in the siege had been rebuilt with white marble. The towers changed color halfway up, some walls started red and ended white, and some had white splotches in their middles.

_ ‘I like that’  _ Gendry thought to himself. ‘ _ That way we can’t forget. That way we all remember _ .’ It was startling to look at, though, a little bit ugly.  _ ‘Like a scar’ _ . Tearing his eyes away from the Keep, Gendry saw a man standing in the road before him.

“Lord Baratheon.” the man said, removing his hood. “We’ve been expecting you.” 

“Davos!” Gendry yelled, jumping from his horse and embracing the old man. “Come to welcome me?” he asked as they separated, both men beaming.

“Come to make sure you don’t find trouble before you find your rooms, more like.” Davos teased, his hand with the short fingers still clutched Gendry’s arm tightly. It might hurt if it weren’t comforting.

“We miss you terribly in the Stormlands” Gendry confessed as they began to walk.

“I miss it, too. I’d far prefer to be home than here, dealing with Ser Bronn of the Fucking Blackwater. That man is enraging.” Gendry laughed. 

“Have I met him?” he asked. “I’m still shit at remembering all these people.”

“If you’d met him, you’d know.” Davos promised. Or warned? “He’s got to be the lord of High Garden by threatening the right people and somehow he’s Master of Coin despite his only experience in coin be spending it on disreputable women and booze.” Davos was proper ranting, now, and Gendry had to wonder if he had just come from a particularly trying small council meeting. “That man would be the first to steal coin, I haven’t any idea why he’s in charge of it all.”

“I bet the King has his reasons.” Gendry said, amused. “High Garden is very wealthy.”

“So it is.” Davos sighed. “How is Storm’s End?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Fine, stormy.” 

“Are you sleeping? Don’t mind me saying, you look like shit.”

“You of all people have free reign to say as you please.” Gendry said, dodging the question. Davos knew the answer, anyway. 

“These are your rooms, son. We are all under orders to arrive for dinner no later that the 6th bell.” 

“All?” 

“Yes, all of us.” Davos said “Everyone. Oh, and you’re to sit at the high table, by the way. Second seat on the left. The King was specific” 

That wasn’t a real answer and left Gendry no less confused, but Davos quickly promised to see him later and retreated, claiming to have somewhere urgent to be. Gendry stood outside the door for a minute, then sighed, walking into his rooms and closing the door quickly. Gendry sank onto his bed and pressed his palms into his eyes, rubbing until he could see nothing but swirling light. He knew that he slipped into a light sleep, but had no clue how much time passed before he heard the deafening clang of the bell. On instinct, he counted ‘ _ 1...2...3...4...and 5 _ .’ Thank the Gods he wasn’t late, but he had only an hour to himself before he’d have to spend hours talking to people. To “everyone”, according to Davos. 

Gendry groaned. He was tired, he was sweaty, he was certainly not in a personable mood. He washed as quickly as he could, brushed his hair into something presentable, and he dressed in the nicest clothes he had brought with him. A black doublet with golden buttons engraved with a stag, black breeches that shone in the sun, and shined leather boots. When fully dressed, Gendry made his way down to the feasting hall. He hadn’t known where it was, but luckily he saw a serving girl with a pitcher of wine in each hand. Figuring she was either headed to the kitchen or the hall, Gendry followed her, hoping it was the latter. He was right in that, and as he slipped into the hall behind her, his eyes fell on the high table. He gasped, slightly, before catching himself.

\---

King Bran was seated in the middle of the table, his eyes were white and he was staring into the distance as though he could see none of them. He was flanked by Jon Snow and Sansa Stark. ‘ _ Sansa looks good’  _ he thought, almost a little proud of her although feeling he had no right to be. She was always tough, but now she looked strong. Her hair fell by her sides as straight as an arrow, glistening red against the silver of her crown. Jon, he noticed, was slouched in his chair, more on his back than his rear, and was already scowling into a pitcher of something- ale, more than likely. The empty seat next to Jon was the second seat on the left, so Gendry made straight for it. 

“This taken?” he asked gruffly, his hand on the back of the chair.

“Oh thank the Gods.” Jon said, sitting up and looking relieved. “Finally a fucking friend. Please, please sit.” Gendry laughed.

“Good to see you.” 

“And you.”

“So do you know why we’re here?” Jon asked.

“Not a bloody clue.” Gendry answered. “But what a relief it is I wasn’t the only one summoned, and that I’m not the only one who doesn't know what's happening." Jon laughed aloud, pouring Gendry some ale.

“ And you had cause to worry? Please tell me, Gendry, What could you have done to anger my brother?” 

‘ _ If you only knew _ ’ Gendry thought, laughing awkwardly.

“I guess I’ve never stopped waiting for that other shoe to drop.” he said instead. “That’s what my whole life was before. Get comfortable, get shit on, get comfortable again, make a few friends, get kidnapped by a crazy witch, have a successful shop in King’s Landing, guess what? Dead army coming..”

“Hey, you volunteered for that fight.” Jon said before sighing. “You’re right, though. I never thought peace would be this anxiety inducing.” Gendry nodded slightly in agreement. “At least when we were running for our lives we knew it, we were prepared for it, we could do something about it. Even now I’m still primed for battle, sleeping with one eye open for an enemy that's long dead.”

“I know that feeling.” Gendry said. “I don’t think I’ve slept soundly in years.” Jon clapped him on the back, causing him to spill a bit of ale down his shirt, but Jon didn’t notice. It was black, anyway. Fuck it.

“It really is good to see you, brother,” he said. “I was worried about you. Thought maybe you’d starve to death before you figured out how to use a fork properly.” Gendry laughed.

“Ahh- fuck you.” he sighed, smiling and clinking his glass against Jon’s. 

They sat in comfortable silence, then, and Gendry scanned the rest of the hall. There were two chairs tucked out of the way behind the King, and Tyrion Lannister and Davos were sitting together at the far end of the hall, speaking as though about something urgent. Sam was with them, too, in his grey robe, reading. Queen Sansa was sitting beside her brother, looking quite bored while speaking with Brienne. 

Servants came rushing in, breaking Gendry’s concentration and bringing with them piles and piles of food, enough to feed all of King’s Landing with scraps left over for the dogs. 

‘ _ This is why the smallfolk hate us _ .’ Gendry thought as every inch of table was covered in plates. In his darkest, poorest days, when he’d eaten a bowl of brown every other day, he’d tried to imagine what a real feast was like. He’d tried to imagine how those rich fuckers got so fat, he’d tried to imagine the richest food he could, but he’d never come close. He couldn’t have even guessed that there were thirteen different ways to cook a ham, and if he could he wouldn’t know why a Lord needed all of them served for the same meal. Seemed like showing off at that point, didn’t it? Over Jon’s shoulder, he saw Bran’s eyes flicker back, and he glanced around the room, catching Gendry’s eye. 

“Lord Baratheon. Good of you to join us.” the King said, no emotion in his voice. Gendry was even more confused now. ‘ _ Good of me? _ ’ he thought. ‘ _ Like I had a choice? _ ’ Jon noticed and clapped him on the back again, his mouth pressed together in amusement and what might be solidarity, but did not say a word.

Once people had begun to eat and they were all on their second (or third) drink, the King clapped once and the room grew silent. 

“This feast is a celebration” he began, mototone as ever. “A celebration of the future of Westeros, and of those who will usher in that future. “Change” is a word that sparks terror in our hearts, we have all suffered at the hands of those who wanted to break the wheel and start anew, but change will not always be forced by war. The world into which we were born was so cruel, we have all felt its wrath and we bear the scars of it. To change this world is our duty. Our fathers left us a world harder and more dangerous than theirs. We must not do the same for those children that will come after us. Theirs will be an age of peace. We will not rain down ash and wade through rivers of blood for our change, for lasting change must start with ourselves, we must embrace peace in our hearts and our minds, then act with peaceful intention.” Bran flicked his hand, and the guards made towards the double doors of the hall, resting their hands on the large, brass handles. “I welcome the guest of honor who will lead this kingdom into its era of peace, our true Golden Age. The Girl Named No-One, named Dawnbreaker, Lightbringer, and Night Slayer, Princess of all Seven Kingdoms, the Wandering Wolf and Justice of the North…” the doors swung open, “Arya Stark.”

And there she stood. So many dreams and memories, now she stood in the same room, breathing the same air. She was back. Gendry noticed first that she was absolutely fuming, fists bunched and nose wrinkled. He’d seen that look a hundred times, even been on the wrong end of it more than once. As she stalked up to the high table, Gendry took in the rest of her. She looked so vastly different than he remembered, but still herself. She was tanned dark as a Dornishman, her dark hair had grown to her waist and was caught in a high braid. Gendry had never seen clothing like that she was wearing, her breeches were bright green and gold and baggy, billowing out around her legs but tight around the ankles and slung low on her hip bones. She still wore her sword belt, Catspaw and Needle swinging as she walked. Her stomach was bare, her scars pale against her tanned skin. Her muscles were taught and Gendry marvelled at her, just for a second. Gendry felt his breath quicken before he remembered to bring it back to normal. He stole an anxious glance at Jon but he was staring, too. Not at all with the same intent as Gendry, but occupied enough not to notice.

She was near the high table now, and with the fury on her face Gendry was almost glad she hadn’t seen him. This close, Gendry could see the detail of the cloth, it was both woven and embroidered finely with an unfamiliar pattern. Gendry wasn’t the type to gush over fancy clothes, but he appreciated the work of any craftsman skilled at his trade. The work was stunning. Every eye in the hall was on her, but did not see him or anyone else. Her eyes were locked onto the King, and she stomped toward him with intent. 

“Hello, sweet sister.” Bran calmly said as she slammed her hands on the table, leaning over it to bring her face closer to his. Sansa was already crying, and Jon was smiling like a fool, but the King’s face was blank.

“Don’t you ‘hello’ me.” Arya spat. “How  _ dare  _ you. I haven’t bathed, I haven’t eaten, my ship is not even secured in the harbor and you have me dragged in here for a spectacle.” 

“There is food right here to break your fast, sister.” Bran said, “look, we have saved you a seat.” he gestured to the empty seats that had appeared between Bran and Sansa. “And another for your guest.”

‘ _ Guest?’  _ Gendry thought, his heart pounding in his ears. ‘ _ Did she come back married?’ _ Why was that his first thought? Gendry was suddenly feeling as if he had drank far too much. 

“Fine.” Arya said, her voice still hard. She climbed over the table, stepping over a ham and Sansa’s wine before jumping to the ground and slamming into her seat in one graceful motion. Sansa immediately leaned over to kiss her sister’s cheek, and Arya stopped glaring daggers into Bran long enough to squeeze her sister’s hand in return and wipe a tear from Sansa’s face. Jon was up, and he wrapped Sansa and Arya together, one under each arm, half pulling them out of their chairs. They sat there for a moment, all pressed together, smiling, and Arya looked as though she forgot she was meant to be angry.

Arya straightened away from Jon but held firm to his hand, standing as a tall woman approached, rounding the table to stand by Arya’s chair. Her clothing was also strange and similar to Arya's, but hers was a dress of orange and gold that wrapped and wrapped around her, ending in an elegant drape over her shoulder. She was dark skinned and stunning, with black rimmed eyes and a pleasant smile. She smiled brightly when she saw Arya with her siblings and laughed so sweetly that Gendry was reminded of his mother for a second.

“Sansa.” the tall woman said, turning toward her. Her accent was thick, but pleasant to hear. “Jon. And Brandon”, she continued, looking to address each of them. She used no titles, and no one thought to correct her. “I have heard many stories of you all from your sister. It is my pleasure to know you myself, now.” The tall woman smiled so big and so brightly that her eyes nearly closed to make room for the joy on her face. Nobody could fake a smile like that. Gendry liked her immediately.

“Arya.” Sansa said quietly, turning to look her sister straight in the eyes, as close to begging as a Queen can get. “Tell us where you’ve been.”

“West of Westeros…” Arya started and Gendry leaned forward to see her better “is an island called Vilinos.”

\---

Gendry sat entranced as Arya spoke of her journey, the tall woman by her side, the two of them seated between Bran and Sansa. Only three moon’s sailing away was a great island called Vilinos, named for the people who lived there and called themselves Vili. Gendry liked the way she said it. “ _ Veeee-lye”.  _ The tall woman was their princess and named Keera. Gendry liked the way Arya’s tongue fluttered against the roof of her mouth as she pronounced the “r”, but Gendry liked everything she was saying, especially when she looked at him and smiled. They had all been drinking as Arya spoke, and they were all flush-faced and giddy. 

The rest of Arya’s crew kept trickling into the hall from where the party had overflown into the large courtyard off the hall. The sun had long since fallen, the sticky heat of summer turned crisp in the night. Gendry could pick out her people because of their clothes and because they were all holding things. Some brought drums and began to play, some brought chests which they carried off to somewhere else, Gendry didn’t know where. One man approached the high table and smiled.

“Cyrwyn!” Arya called, reaching out her hand to him. “Come meet my family.” The man was young, and had short cropped sandy hair and this sort of smug sideways smile. “Jon, Bran, Sansa, this is my first mate, Cyrwyn. Come drink with us and regale my siblings with the tale of how the two of us conquered the sunset sea.”

“What a tale it is.” he said, his crooked little smile widening. Gendry wasn’t sure he liked this companion of Arya’s as much. “A pleasure, Your Graces.” he said with a small bow, his hands still clasped behind his back.

“Come and sit, Cyrwyn.” Arya ordered.

“I wouldn’t distract you from your reunion, Captain. And there is work to be done. I’ll be off to the ship to get the cargo unloaded and the men settled. I’ve brought this up from Nym for you, though,” he said, holding up a rather large fat bottle of deep brown liquid. “So it’ll be a proper party.”

“Cyrwyn! This is why you are my favorite.” Arya stated, taking the bottle from him. Gendry definitely didn’t like this one. “It won’t take all night, Cyrwyn. Come find us once you’ve finished, yeah?. This is going to last till dawn, now.” The first mate named Cyrwyn bowed again and left them, disappearing quickly into the bustling crowd.

“This is called ka-fet!” Arya explained excitedly, kneeling on her chair and leaning clear over Bran to fill Jon and Gendry’s cups. Her face was flushed and Gendry could almost feel the heat from it. Gendry watched Arya smile as she sipped her drink, and he smiled, too. Jon stuck his nose in his cup and immediately recoiled, causing Arya to laugh. “Be careful, there, brother! This is a mix of the morning brew that wakes you up and a strong liquor that knocks you back on your ass. If you drink more than a cup or two you’ll wake up under a bridge without any clothes, I guarantee it.”

“This is only you that does this.” Keera laughed, then stopped and listened to the music coming from outside. “Dancing!” Keera shouted suddenly, pushing Arya by the shoulder, causing her chair to rock but not a drop of ka-fet to spill from her cup.

“Dancing!” Arya agreed, throwing her arms up and standing on her chair. She drained her cup and pulled on Sansa and Keera’s arms until they had no choice but to climb over the table with her. Keera was smiling as brightly as ever and Sansa looked like she was having fun and wanting to die in equal measure. Arya pulled them toward the doors and turned, giving the high table a good view of the massive direwolf on her back. Its head rested on her shoulder as it stood on its hind legs, claws out and primed to attack, its body coiled around her only briefly blocked by the thin strips of gold cloth crossing across her back, the tail coming to rest at the crook of her hip and stopping just short of the scars on her waist. Gendry never actually heard the story behind those scars. Beside him, Jon gasped and sputtered, he’d seen it too.

“Is that thing inked?” he asked, flabbergasted. “into her skin?”

“That’s the most incredible thing I have ever seen.” Gendry proclaimed, and Jon whipped his head around to look at Gendry, absolutely aghast.

“It’s in her SKIN.” Jon said. “Forever. Her father would skin me alive.”

“But it’s a direwolf” Gendry argued, “better the symbol of your house than, I don’t know, a boat or a cow or something.”

“And what about those scars?” Jon asked. “Fucking hells, I shouldn’t’ve let her go. D’you think she was attacked by pirates or something?”

‘ _ She had those before’  _ Gendry wanted to say, but he couldn’t exactly say how he knew that. So he just said “Pirates” with a shrug.

“I need another drink” Jon said, finding the pitcher empty and going in search of more. Gendry rose from his chair and noticed for the first time that he was actually drunk. He stumbled on his feet at first, but found solid footing as he walked outside to the courtyard, following the drumbeat.

\---

‘ _ I’m a fucking dead man.’  _ he thought to himself when he saw her. Her feet bounced to the beat of the drums, she was spinning around and around, her hips moving separately from the rest of her. Her hair was down, now, the waves pressed into it by the tight braid were still there as she whipped her hair around her. It glinted in the firelight and looked like dragon glass. She was sweating, and the firelight caught that, too. Her stomach glistened with it as she spun, glittering diamonds on goosebumped flesh. Gendry leaned against a wall and watched as she glided effortlessly through the air, hands clapping to the rhythm and her head thrown back in laughter. He couldn’t hear, but he bet her feet made no noise at all upon the ground. Her chest rose high as she breathed, her face flushed and pink. Mid-turn, her eye caught his and she saw him watching, but she didn’t stop. Her eyes held his for a moment, the grey of them glowing hot in the firelight. She whirled around again, and in a flash of hair she had her back to him. He watched her hips as they rolled, her hair as it swung. He watched the direwolf on her back twist with her, and he swore he saw it smile. “ _ A fucking dead man _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya is BAAAAAACK! Obviously she's changed a lot, 18 to 22 is such a long time, but I hope you like her! 
> 
> There's some parts where Vilinosi words are going to be incorporated, I hope it all makes sense. I took a lot of inspiration from Indian clothing for the clothes, I have reference pics I can link if you guys want to see what I'm trying to describe. Let me know what you think of the Original Characters that are coming in, I love them all so much and I just want to make sure y'all are able to read them the way they are in my head. We'll get to see more of Vilinosi culture in the next couple chapters.
> 
> Oh, btw, Ka-fet is supposed to be like red bull and jager or like a coffee liquor.


	4. Something You'll Regret

Gendry was drunk. In fact, he had never been more drunk. He was clutching the wall for stability as he spewed his dinner into a decorative urn, and the acid burned in his throat as he groaned a silent apology to the maids. ‘Where the fuck is my room?’ He thought, unsure if he said it out loud or not. He was starting to think that the ground looked soft and maybe even a good place to sleep. 'No.' He lectured himself, 'Lords do NOT. PASS OUT. in hallways.' He leaned his head against the cool stone, trying to slow down the spinning in his head before he puked again. He breathed slowly and deeply, in and out, in and out. His cheekbone hurt pressed so hard against the wall, but Gendry wasn’t sure he could move if he tried. 

Suddenly, a sound from the darkness sobered him just enough to raise his head. A cry, maybe? A sob? He pushed off the wall and stumbled loudly forward, searching for the source. Maybe someone needed his help. He knocked over a lantern as he went, wincing as it crashed to the ground, shattering the glass and extinguishing the small flame inside. What help was he, exactly? The sobbing stopped suddenly and Gendry wondered if he’d imagined it, but when he rounded a corner he saw her. The fiercest woman he’d ever met was sitting on the floor in a dark hallway, clutching her knees to her chest and holding a bottle to her lips with red eyes and tears streaming down her face. He'd seen her just a few hours earlier, sitting by the fire with Sansa. 

Gendry stopped in front of her, leaned his back against the wall opposite her, and slid down a little too fast, landing hard on his butt. 

“Hey.” was all he could say.

“Hey.” was all she returned. Her voice was rough, like she’d been crying a while.

“You good?” he asked, feeling stupid for asking.

“No.” she raised the bottle to her lips and took a deep drink. “I fought with Jon.” Gendry was confused.

“Nah, you didn’t.” he said, shaking his head and regretting it instantly. “It’s Jon, you two can’t fight, you’re…. you and Jon.” Arya laughed bitterly, looking up to avoid more tears. 

“I’m drunk and stubborn, he’s drunk and stubborn. We fought. It was bad."

"C'mon, you can do better than ‘it was bad.’" Gendry joked, feeling instantly guilty when she started sobbing harder. “Just say you’re sorry in the morning, he won’t stay mad. He loves you.” He offered, gentler. Arya shook her head.

“I said some things…” she said, looking him in the eye, now, letting the tears fall. “I wouldn’t forgive me if I were him.”

“Jon’s nicer than you.” Gendry teased. Arya laughed, actually laughed. She crawled to the other side of the hall and settled next to him, passing him the bottle. ‘Bad, bad, bad idea’ screamed the one part of his brain he hadn’t yet drank silent. Was it talking about the bottle or sitting this close? He took the bottle and set it down out of her reach, then he folded his hands in his lap, intertwining his fingers to force them to stay there. “What’d you fight about?”

“At first it was about my clothes and my marques-” she said.

“I think that direwolf is great.” he interrupted.

“Me, too.” she smiled. “But Jon lectured me. He asked me where I left my shirt, and why I was prancing around in smallclothes.”

“Yeah, Jon’s the only one who minds.” Arya elbowed him in the side.

“It’s hot. It’s hot in Vilinos, It’s hot here. I’m not wearing fucking furs to sweat to death.”

“That’d be stupid.” Gendry agreed

“It would be stupid! I’m just being practical. It wasn’t about the clothes, really, and I knew that. But I fought him anyway, because I knew why he was really mad, and that made me mad.” Gendry turned his head to raise an eyebrow at her, hoping he wouldn’t puke on her. “He’s mad because I’m going back.” Gendry sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“You’re going back?” he asked. “Forever?” she elbowed his ribs again.

“No, stupid. Not forever. I didn’t spend a dozen painful hours in a marquist's chair getting a direwolf on my back because I hate my home.” she leaned her head back and Gendry heard it thud against the wall. “I have their Princess with me, did he think we’d just keep her? She has to go home. She’s just here to meet Sansa and Bran and build some sort of trade agreement. They don’t have ships. They have stuff we need, but they’ve never made seaworthy ships, so if we can give them that then we will have their trade and a new ally.” 

“Ah,” Gendry sighed, nodding. “Diplomacy.”

“The fuck you know about diplomacy?” Arya demanded, turning her face up at him. “You learn even half the names of your bannermen’s houses, yet?”

“Uh, no.” he replied. “Because they’re a boring bunch of cunts.” Arya giggled and leaned on him a little, finding him radiating warmth, like always. “That doesn’t explain what you and Jon fought about.” Gendry said. “You wouldn’t be out here if your brother didn’t approve of your outfit. He’d have bruised shins, is all. What happened?”

“We just kept fighting. He said that I was always running away, that I ran away and left Sansa after father died and I was running away from my family again. So I told him exactly what I did after father died. The cruelest version of it, anyway.”

“We never talked, you know.” Gendry whispered into her hair.

“What?”

“You promised me we would. After the war was won. You said you’d tell me what happened after the Brotherhood sold me off, but you never did. I was so excited to have my friend back, but the war was coming any day and we never got to talk, we never...”

“Got to be friends?” she offered, almost a whisper.

“Yeah” 

“We didn’t exactly act like friends.” she said, and Gendry furrowed his brow.

“No, everything moved so fast. I wish we’d had time after... to talk.”

“We’re talking now.”

“We are, indeed. So what all happened?”

“A lot of shit happened.”

“Well great, because I’m too drunk to move so it looks like we’re here all night. Start with the brotherhood selling me. And don’t skip anything.” 

“Fine. I was mad as hell after they sold you. The fucking hypocrites. I added Thoros and Beric to my list, and I spat and I swore and I fought them, and then I ran. I wasn’t fifty feet into the forest when the Hound punched me in the back of the head and knocked me unconscious-”

“What a cunt-”

“No talking” she snapped. 

“Yes, Princess.” She dug her elbow into his ribs hard, hitting the same spot she had twice already. He knew he’d be bruised there tomorrow. Other places, too, more than likely.

“Anyway- I thought he would take me to Cersei, but he was taking me to the Twins to ransom me off, just like the brotherhood had planned to. We travelled for a long time taking the trails and the hills, we couldn’t take the King’s road. He stood out in a crowd, y’know. What he was doing was no different than the brotherhood, so I wasn’t too mad, but I did threaten to kill him in his sleep a lot. We got to the Twins after the killing started. I was just in time to see my brother Robb’s body, headless like my father’s. They sewed his wolf’s head onto it, but it was too heavy and kept ripping the skin of his neck so they had to sew through the collar bones to anchor it. I heard that from a Frey soldier as we rode past their fire one night. Jon hadn’t known I was there, so I told him exactly what Robb’s body looked like, hands bound and propped up on a horse to be paraded around while they laughed at him. Our proud brother, our brave brother, reduced to a spectacle and a stinking corpse to be thrown in the river when they got bored of him. I told Jon it was his fault. That Robb wanted him to be his General but Jon was moping at the Wall and left Robb all alone.” Arya pulled in a shuddering breath, “I killed that Frey fucker that sewed the head, though. I surprised him by his fire and I stabbed and stabbed him until he was dead.

“That the first?” Gendry asked. "Kill, I mean."

“No, the first was a stable boy who threatened to take me to Cersei the day they killed my father. The day we met.”

“Fuck.” he said, staring at her. He thought of how little she’d been, standing only up to his elbows, then. He couldn't picture her running someone through. He could imagine her threatening, but not actually doing it. 

“That time it was almost an accident. The Frey fuck was on purpose. I meant to kill him, I planned to kill him. I liked killing him. Anyway. After that Clegane tried to take me to my Aunt Lysa and ransom me to her, but she was dead not three days by the time we got there. I thought it was funny, how cursed I was. He thought I’d be an easy bit of reward money, just like the brotherhood did. They ought to know I’ve never been an easy anything a day in my life. Brienne found us on the road not long after that and she recognized the Hound. They fought. I hid while they were distracted, her squire wasn’t hard to sneak past. When she gave up looking for me I found the Hound, bleeding and half dead at the bottom of a canyon. He asked me to kill him, to make it quick, but I took his money and I left him there to die slowly or live, whichever he could manage.”

“Heard that part from him, back in Winterfell.”

“Yeah, huh? Well after that I went to Braavos.”

“Why Braavos?”

“That’s where the first ship I found was going. And you remember Jaqen, right? From Harrenhall?”

“Yeah. He was creepy.”

“Well he told me I should come with him to Braavos after we escaped Harrenhall, but I said no. He gave me a coin that would get me passage there, in case I ever changed my mind, and I used it to get out of Westeros. When I got there, I found the House of Black and White, and I trained to be a Faceless Man.” Gendry jerked away, just far enough to look her in the eye.

“An assassin?”

“Yeah. An assassin. I was already good at killing people, and I had nowhere else to go, so why not, right? Well, I killed an insurance broker, I did some spying, I was a good little acolyte until I saw that fuck Meryn Trant-”

“Who?”

“He was on my list. He killed Syrio Forrel. Keep up. Well, I saw him in a brothel when I was there- don’t look at me like that, I was just selling oysters and spying some. He was a bad man, Gendry. He liked to hurt little girls, he liked them less than ten, and he liked to beat them and rape them and watch them cry.” Gendry shuddered. “So I stole a face I wasn’t supposed to have. It was a little girl’s face, and I put it on and I snuck into the brothel. I didn’t cry when he hit me, so he picked me. As soon as we were alone I pulled out a knife and I stabbed him in the eyes, then the chest, then the back. Probably thirty times I stabbed him. The knife was short and the wounds were shallow, but he was bleeding out, so I mocked him and I made sure he knew who I was before I slit his throat.”

“He deserved that.”

“Yeah, he did.” she said, glad he understood. “Well the faceless men blinded me and cast me out as punishment, and I lived on the streets as a blind beggar for nearly a year. Every day, another acolyte, this bitch called the Waif, would come and beat me with a staff, mocking me and telling me to fight back. I did. Eventually I learned to hear her moving, and I beat her. That’s when they brought me back and returned my sight. They gave me another person to kill, then, as another test. I failed it. She was nice. She was an actress and the one who hired us was just jealous and wanted her out of the way. I couldn’t kill her for that, so they sent the Waif to kill me. She used a face to get close enough, and she stabbed me. A lot. I threw myself off a bridge and into the canals and I swam away. She killed the actress anyway and came after me again, and I ran. I ran until I found a dark place, and I used what I had learned being blind to beat her. I killed her and I cut off her face. They were pleased I’d survived and wanted me to come back, but I left and went home instead.” she sighed again. “You might hate me after this last part.”

“I could never”

“Never say never. Jon hates me for it. Do you remember the song about the rat cook? The one who violated guest right by killing and cooking his guests into pies, so the gods punished him by turning him into a rat?" Gendry nodded, not at all liking where this was headed. "Well, when I got back I went straight for the Twins. I waited in the woods for days for the two oldest Frey sons to return from wherever the fuck they’d been. They were easy to overpower. They were weak. I skinned them and I butchered them, and I put on a face I’d stolen and snuck into the kitchens. I baked them into pies. You mustn't ever tell Hotpie, but I used his recipe for the crust. I fed Walder Frey his own sons, and I made sure he knew it before I killed him, too. I took his face, and I wore it for a week. It was gross. He was gross. I called his family in, all of them. All of his sons, all of his grandsons, all their cousins. I used his seal to demand their presence and then I toasted the red wedding with poisoned wine and watched them all choke on it. I remember I had to send out over a hundred ravens to get them all there. I killed them all, except the little girl old Walder had married.”

“They deserved it, too.” Gendry said, although not entirely sure feeding a man his own sons was fully warranted under any circumstances, but it hadn't been his mother and brother killed, had it? “What does this have to do with Jon?”

“When I was fighting with Jon, he got me so mad, I don’t even remember what he said, but I called him a coward. I told him he’d forgotten about Robb when he fucked the Dragon Bitch, and I said that after he got Winterfell back and was King in the North he wanted the Southern throne for her and he forgot all about Robb and father. I told him I avenged them because he failed to. I told him he was a weak man who cared more about his crown and hers than our dead family, that he’d rather kneel to another like a craven than protect his own.”

“That's not true, though.” Gendry said, frowning. “Everything he did he did to protect Sansa and Bran and avenge you and Rickon and Robb. He killed her for you, to keep you safe. The Dragon Queen. I heard Lord Tyrion talking about it, how she threatened you and Sansa and Jon killed her to protect you. But he never forgot about Robb or your father. He never forgot.”

“I know that. Not the part about what Tyrion said. I didn't know that. He was being an ass about everything and I wanted to hurt him.” Arya started crying again. “I didn’t mean any of it, and I wanted to take it back even as I was saying it, but now I can’t” she sobbed. “The look on his face, Gendry, he won’t ever forgive me.”

“Jon will forgive you, neither of you will even remember this fight, anyway. Tomorrow he’ll be so glad to have you home he won’t care what clothes you wear, or what marques you’ve got, or how many people you’ve killed or fucked, or what you said when you were blind drunk and angry.” Gendry rested his cheek on her head, slumping awkwardly to reach it. His eyes fluttered as he struggled to stay awake. “Jon loves you best. Out of everyone in this world, he loves you best. It’ll all be okay, It’ll all be okay in the morning.”

That’s how Davos found them the next day. Bottles littered the ground near them, Arya still clutching her knees to her chest and leaning on Gendry’s shoulder. Gendry’s hands were still folded in his lap, legs straight out and his head sideways, resting gently on hers as he drooled a small puddle into her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's ten thousand words before Arya and Gendry finally talk. Everyone is just working through some shit right now. Lots of emotions, lots of booze. There will be a lot more sober, adult conversations next chapter. Also a lot more Sansa.


	5. Brothers

Arya woke to the sound of gentle voices, and she squinted hard against the sun. Her head was pounding, her mouth was dry, her neck was stiff and her bones cracked as she shifted. 

“Princess. You’re awake.” Davos said, sounding surprised. 

“Ugh!” she whined. “It’s so bright. Why are you being so loud?”

“We were whispering, and it’s nearly midday.” he said. “Your brother has been looking for you for hours, Princess. He thought you’d left again. Everyone is looking for you.” Arya crawled to her feet and looked down to see Gendry still sleeping, snoring loudly. He had fallen over on his side and a stranger was poking at him with his boot.

“Uh, yeah, Davos? He’s fucked.” Artan said, amused. “Not surprised. He never could hold his ale, I’ve never seen him have more than a cup. We’re going to have to carry him back.”

“That wasn’t ale.” Arya groaned, "wish it had been, the headache would be less." Artan handed her a skin. She nodded her thanks and drank from it, wanting wine but finding water. That helped, too. She could open her eyes fully, now, and the pain in her head was dimmed to just a moderate pounding.

“Who are you, exactly?” she asked, handing the skin back.

“A friend of Lord Baratheon. Artan, M’Lady. Or your Highness?”

“Arya’s fine.”

“Great. I’m shit at all that.”

“Me, too.” Arya said, considering this friend of Gendry’s. She found it comforting that he kept friends who weren’t Lords. That meant that Gendry hadn’t changed that much, that he was still himself.

“Princess-” Davos interjected, “how’d you two get all the way over here? You’re halfway to the dungeons.”

“I haven’t the foggiest clue.” Arya said, rubbing her head. “We didn’t come together though. I remember trying to get away from the music, Gendry must’ve been proper lost.”

“That sounds right.” Artan said, earning a warning glance from Davos.

“How’d you find us, then?” Arya asked

“Easy, I just followed the trail of vomit and broken things, and here you were. To be fair, there have been a dozen similar trails, lots of drunk fools at the end of them. We have got to get you both back, your brother is worried sick.” He said.

“Which one’s that?”

“Well, both, I imagine, but Jon’s the only one I’ve seen. He’s had all the Northmen out searching the castle and the woods since dawn. He’d gone to your rooms and you weren’t there” Arya winced, but Davos continued as though he didn’t notice. “I don’t think anybody besides us has noticed Gendry gone yet, and I’d rather get you both back before anybody makes the connection. Quietly. The Lord does not need that trouble. ” 

“Good looking out.” Arya said, pressing her palm into her forehead. “Nothing improper happened.”

“Besides sleeping in the corridor piss drunk?” laughed Artan, making Arya laugh and Davos huff.

“Yeah, besides that.”

“The truth doesn’t matter as much as the rumors. Get a move on, man.” Davos ordered Artan, and they each took one of Gendry’s arms and slung them over their shoulders. As they lifted him and began to walk, Gendry’s feet dragged on the floor, making an awful noise. He was a full head taller than either of the men carrying him. “Princess, would you mind?” Davos asked, looking pained.

“No, no, yeah. I’ve got it” Arya said, She pulled Gendry’s feet to the front and tucked one ankle under each arm so she could walk forward. “Fuck he’s heavy!” She said. “What are they feeding you people in the Stormlands?”

They carried Gendry, quietly as they could, back to his rooms. Arya peeked around each corner, making sure their coast was clear, and then they shuffled awkwardly and as fast as their feet would go. The stairs were the worst. Somehow, probably because everyone else was still sleeping off last night’s celebration, they made it to his rooms without being seen. Arya dropped Gendry's legs loudly into the floor and Davos and Artan let him down on the bed where he started to snore.

“You’ve got to roll him on his side,” Arya said. “So he doesn’t choke if he pukes again.”

“Right.” Artan said, pushing Gendry by the shoulder until he was on his side, his face resting just inches from the edge of the bed. He did not wake. Arya poured a glass of water from the pitcher by the washing table, swiped the bowl, too, and set both on the floor beside the bed. 

“There” she said, holding her hands out and admiring her work. “He should be good until he wakes up.” 

“None of us will be if someone catches you in here, Princess.” Davos said nervously. "I thank you for your help but you've got to go, now." Arya nodded and slipped out into the hallway, closing the door silently behind her. 

The Keep was especially quiet, so it wasn’t hard to avoid everyone as she made her way through the corridors. The bells clanged, and Arya gasped and pressed hard on her ears, doubling over from a pain like her brain was being squeezed.  _ ‘How the fuck does anyone drink in this town?’  _ She asked as the twelfth bell faded out. Twelve seemed excessive. The bells were obnoxious, but they were helpful at least. She had half a day to kill, and she wanted to avoid the people she knew were looking for her. In that moment, Arya turned to the most unexpected place of solace: Sansa’s chambers. 

She considered sneaking by the guards, maybe climbing in the window, but why bother? She could go anywhere she wanted and no one could stop her. Arya refused to fear rapers or murderers, pirates or storms, she refused to fear a conversation with her brother. She would not hide. If he wanted to talk, he would know where she was, but Arya hoped he took his time. She wasn’t ready to see him and not still be mad. Not yet, anyway. 

Upon reaching Sansa’s rooms, the guards made no effort to stop her from entering and she did not knock. Pushing against the heavy wood door, she found it unlocked and it swung open easily. Sansa was curled in her daybed by the wide window, her hair gently moving in the soft breeze, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, fast asleep. The wine glass was tipping, precariously close to spilling. Arya removed it and placed it on the side table. Arya considered her sister for a moment, appreciating how peaceful she looked. Arya crossed her ankles and sank to the floor, staring up at the young Queen. With her mouth slightly open and her face relaxed, Sansa looked no older than when they’d left for King’s Landing for the first time, all those years ago. The hardness in her face was gone, all the lines of pain and worry had faded away. The sight caused a small twinge in Arya’s heart. Sansa should always look like this. She shouldn’t bear the weight of all those years and all that torment. She shouldn't have been alone. Arya sat, cross-legged on the floor below her sister for a moment, before grasping and tugging on a piece of her hair. Sansa inhaled sharply and lifted her head.

“You and Jon fought.” she said, groggily, as she opened her eyes. “I thought that was our thing.” Arya smiled.

“We can still fight, I promise.” Arya assured her, her voice soft and warm. 

“He’s mad.”

“He can stay mad, for now.” 

“He thinks you’ve changed. If it’s worth anything, I think it's for the better. I think you look beautiful.” Sansa said, and Arya scoffed amusedly.

“Well, fuck, San. If our Septa could see us now, Queen Sansa calling Arya Horseface beautiful, she’d die of shock.”

“You grew into that horseface, that’s for sure. It’s not that, though. You look happier.” Arya leaned her back against the daybed and Sansa began to comb through her sister’s hair with her fingers. “So, tell me more about Vilinos.The things you wouldn’t tell Jon and Bran.”

“I had a life there, for one.” Arya sighed. “I lived there almost 3 years. I own a house. I had friends,  _ have _ friends.”

“What was it like?” 

“Hot. And beautiful. And peaceful.” Arya said, closing her eyes. “The Eastern side, the side I saw first, has these cliffs. They look like the Wall, San. A thousand feet high and shining white rock. Fucking stunning. The cliffs block the view of the rest of the island, and you can't tell anybody lives there when you're sailing up. The island comes out of the sea like a tipped dinner plate, one long hill from the sea to the cliffs. The far Western side is all glistening beaches and water as blue as ice, but warm. Always warm. From the beaches you can see the Capitol City, Raiyun. It’s nothing like the cities here. There’s no walls, no gates, no guards.”

“How do they protect themselves?” Sansa asked.

“They don’t fight wars often enough to have to, really. They have their issues, but their senate handles their issues, not soldiers.”

“Explain ‘senate’ to me.”

“The people elect someone to advocate for them, the farmers get a representative, the gentry, the builders, the merchants, the academics, and the children, too. This senator represents their people’s interests. They hear so much more, that way. Everyone has a voice and the laws are made to protect them all, not just the interests of a few families.”

“The children elect their own representative?”

“No, their parents do. Keera is the children’s champion for the capitol region. She's told me about it. She’s done incredible work there. Child marriage is illegal, girls and boys have to be ten and seven before they can wed. No one can be compelled to marry against their will. Girls have the same right to education as the boys do. The girls learn to read, to ride, archery and hunting alongside the boys. Poor girls and rich girls alike.”

“That’s your dream. I see why you’re friends.”

“It makes a difference for those girls, growing up never being told that they can’t. Can’t marry who they want, can’t do what they want, can’t grow up to be who they want to be. They grow up faced with wide open possibilities. That’s freedom.”

“Do you think that’s what Bran meant when he said 'the future of Westeros'?”

“What?” 

“Oh, yes, that was before your grand entrance. Bran said ‘this feast is to celebrate the future of Westeros’ or something. Like everything would change.”

“Maybe it will. That wouldn’t be too bad.”

“No, change is not necessarily bad. The current order never did us any favors.”

“Says the Queen.” Said Arya. “but things would have been very different if someone had advocated for children when we were young.”

“Yes. For all of us. We would’ve been raised in Winterfell, more than likely. We’d have a lot more peasants. Rickon would have lived. Lord Baratheon would have a lot more siblings.” Arya sighed heavily.

“We are cruel to the innocent, here, aren’t we?” Sansa nodded solemnly. “That part is hard to miss. I was so close to not coming back.” 

“How close?” 

“I wouldn't have, but the King, Keera’s brother, he begged me to. Ships would change everything. And I owed it to them, after everything they did for me.”

“Tell me.”

“I wasn’t raised in a castle, you know. Sometimes, when I was younger and living on the road, people would throw that in my face. ‘ _ Lady Arya _ ’, they’d say. ‘ _ rich girl Arya with the rich father who grew up in a castle _ ’. I was born in one, sure, but I hardly did any growing up there. I was barely ten and one when father died and I don’t remember too much from before. I killed someone for the first time that same day, and that day was the last time I could count on a hot meal or a warm bed. I grew up running, scared, hungry, cold. Sometimes alone. That does something to the mind, I think. I saw it in the Hound sometimes. What his brother did broke something in him. He would never be normal after that, never live an ordinary, happy, boring life. He was never happy. Cruelty just begets more cruelty, desperation breeds selfishness, starved children make dangerous adults. I feared I’d end up like that.”

“Might’ve done.” Sansa said. “Might’ve done but you didn't.” Arya reached up and squeezed Sansa’s hand.

“I’m trying. I healed, there. They let me be, they saw what I needed and they gave me a safe place to be still and rest and heal my mind” Arya explained. “In peace, without any expectations, without anyone knowing me or thinking they did I was able to decide who I wanted to be. I decided what the name ‘Arya Stark’ meant. I had done a lot of things to survive, I’d been a lot of people. I had the chance to choose what parts of myself I wanted to take with me into the future and what parts were best left in the past.”

“What all did you leave?”

“The part of me that wanted death and revenge, the part that hid my true self. All the anger and the hiding and the shame got left behind. It didn’t hold value, it didn’t help me anymore. Vengeance isn’t a road that leads to old age, and I left behind the parts of me that didn’t care if I died or not.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t leave us behind.” Sansa said, kissing the top of her sister’s head. A knock came at the door, just then, light and quick.

“It is Keera, Your Grace.” she called from the other side of the door. 

“Come in,” Sansa called, neither sister moving from their seats. Keera entered the room, her long dress flowing behind her in gentle, golden waves. She was smiling brightly, the smile that made her kohl-rimmed eyes sparkle. She settled on the daybed by Sansa, laying her feet in Arya’s lap.

“I brought wine!” she said, holding up a bottle.

“It’s clear!” Sansa said, astonished, familiar only with the red wines they drank in Westeros. 

“Our grapes are yellow, so our wine is yellow.” Keera said, “It’s more for summer than the red thing.” Keera frowned at the bottle. “I forgot cups.”

“That’s fine” Sansa said, taking it from her and uncorking it. “We are not men who don’t know how to share.” Sansa held the bottle to her lips, drinking. “That’s good!” she said, passing the bottle down to Arya.

“You didn’t used to drink so much.” Arya pointed out, taking the bottle.

“Well now I have good reason to” Sansa retorted. “And I don’t drink as much usually, Just last night.”

“Your head does not hurt if you keep drinking” Keera explained. “Drinking is much like sleep. It is best finished easy, fading. Sleeping while drunk and then waking sober is bad, it is better to rise early and drink a little in the day, you can be sober by dinner and your head does not hurt.”

“Such sage advice.” Sansa laughed.

“Your sister does not take it.” Keera said, and Arya pinched her toes in retaliation. “Always, She drinks and is sick, then she sleeps and she wonders why it hurts her. ‘Not again!’ she says, ‘I never drink again!’ but she is always lying.”

“Interesting. Tell me more of my sister. What of these ‘friends’ of hers? Any men I should know about?”

“Oh, no. Her heart only opens for her Westerosi lover.” 

“KEE.” Arya scolded and pinched her harder, but Sansa leaned forward. 

“I cannot keep secrets if I do not know they are secrets!” Keera defended herself, throwing her hands in the air. “Not telling the brothers I see, brothers are stupid and will fight the man, but sisters understand. Sisters should know.”

“Yes, Arya. We should know. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Yes.” 

“Not a chance.”

“So you’ve fucked him, then?”

“SANSA.” 

“You HAVE! Look at your ears!”

“They are so pink!” Keera giggled

“No more questions.” Arya pouted, crossing her arms.

“I will take two more questions.” Sansa ordered. “I will not ask who, don’t worry. I’ll figure that out on my own. But you have to answer honestly because if you lie I will know.” Arya remembered the game of faces she played so often in Braavos, and thought it would be easy to make a good lie for whatever questions her sister asked.

  
  


“When did you meet?” 

“A very long time ago.”

“Not good enough.”

“After father, but before the Red Wedding.”

“Better. That young?”

“Well we didn’t fuck right off it, we were friends first.”

“Friends is good.” Sansa said, spinning her wine in the bottom of the bottle. “Do you still love him?” she asked.

“Against better judgement, yes.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means what it means.” 

“Does Jon know?”

“That’s question four.”

“Of course Jon doesn’t know. I’d have heard it from him. Half the kingdom would’ve heard it from him” Sansa stared into her wine, pursing her lips contemplatively. “Is he dead?”

“No, he drank too much but he isn’t dead. Heard he was looking for me.”

“Not Jon! The ‘lover’. Don’t change the subject.”

“What subject? I’m not talking about it.”

“So not dead, got it.” 

“Now we’re both not going to talk about it.” Arya demanded.

“And no others?” Sansa said, ignoring her. “Your heart may be closed, but what of the legs?”

“Fuck’s sake, San.”

“Not for lacking options.” Keera answered over her. “My poor brother has a broken heart.”

“Keenan is fine.” Arya said, rolling her eyes. 

“Not so! He had hopes of marrying the princess from the sea, making himself a wolf queen.” Sansa laughed loudly, but was interrupted by a sharp, stern knock at the door. 

“Sansa. It’s Jon.”

“Unless you’ve brought more wine, get fucked!” Sansa yelled.

“Um.. alright…. Okay. We'll speak later then.” he said, quietly, shuffling away from the door as the three women burst into laughter. 

“Thought I’d buy you some more time to work through whatever happened.” Sansa said, and Arya nodded her thanks.

“So all brothers are same, then?” Keera said, “Your princess helps me torment mine.”

“Torment how?” 

“He thinks he is a powerful king, but he holds no power over a sister. He thinks he is handsome, but she is immune to his charms. It is good for him to be humbled. If he always gets what he wants, is always treated like a king, he will grow entitled and forget himself, so it is our duty to tease him and deny him things. And we need entertainment.”

“We do get so very bored.” Arya confirmed.

“Our father always said that war was easier than daughters.” Sansa said. “We were quite trying, weren’t we?”

“Still are!” Arya said proudly, lifting the bottle high in the air, then tipping it over her mouth to get the last drops from the bottom. 

“Jon means well. He’s protective. A lot has happened to us all and he’s been able to help with so little, he takes control where he can.”

“Odd places he takes control, though. He was fine with me fighting and killing and sailing into Gods only know what, but showing my stomach is just a step too far.”

“He wouldn’t be upset if you didn't look good.” Sansa explained. “These really are beautiful.” she said, taking the fabric of Keera’s dress between her fingers.

“It would be funny for you to wear one.” Keera said. “I have the perfect one! Just the color for you.” She stood, then, and went to the door, speaking with a servant quickly in the hall. “It’ll be perfect!” she promised, returning to the daybed. 

“How is the hair done?” Sansa asked.

“Straight down the back is good. Braids if it is hot. The sea water makes the waves look nice, so we do not do much else to it.” The servant returned with a bundle of cloth, and Keera brought it over, unwrapping it to show the silver and ice blue of the material. Sansa gasped and ran her fingers across it, watching the shining silver threads shift and reflect the oranges and reds of the sunset, just beginning. 

“Stand.” Keera said. Sansa obeyed, looking giddy, grinning from ear to ear. She’d always loved to make her own dresses, but now they were all so austere, black and grey and silver, made for intimidation and shows of strength. This gown was soft, bright, delicate, frivolous. Things Sansa hadn't been for years.

Arya spread out on the daybed and watched them, giggling like little girls as Sansa stripped down to nothing. Keera helped her into the gown, helped her fold the pleats of the long skirt, arrange the train. The gown was split into a top and a skirt with a strip of stomach barely obscured by intricately woven strings of jewels connecting the two pieces.When it was completed, Sansa looked breathtaking. Against the soft colors her skin looked translucent white, the skin of her stomach looked as though it had never seen the sun. Her height was accentuated, not hidden. She looked 8 feet tall, graceful like a willow tree. When she moved, the gown billowed and fluttered around her, more like smoke than cloth. She looked lighter.

“Oh Jon will be furious.” Sansa said, running her hands over the jewels that dripped down her bare arms and were sewn into the sheer fabric, her hands lingering on her exposed waist.

“Thank the gods, maybe he’ll stop bothering me.” said Arya, regretting the days she’d spent at odds with Sansa, resenting her for being such a girl. A girl wasn’t such a terrible thing to be when surrounded by other girls, she realized. 

Sansa spun and smiled. “This should be fun.”

\---

Gendry was sleeping soundly when he was awakened by a furious pounding on his door. 

“Aghhhhhh.” he answered. It was a sufficient invitation for Jon, who burst into the room and began pacing back and forth in front of the large bed.

“Do you think me a reasonable man?” he demanded.

“Not right now, no.” Gendry groaned, but Jon ignored him.

“Those girls were hard enough to deal with separately, but now they’re together in there, plotting something.” Jon raved. “You’ve got to believe me, Gendry. I’m reasonable, she’s the one. She’s being absurd, she’s doing it on purpose, to spite me.” Gendry sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“What’re you on about?”

“Sansa and Arya. They’re going to destroy me.”

“And what did you do to deserve that?”

“How dare you? I’ve done nothing. I’m REASONABLE.” Jon was yelling now.

“You don’t look it.” Gendry sighed. “You should know better than to fight with them. Women always win. They’re smarter than us.”

“What would you have me do?” Jon demanded.

“Oh, no. I’m not getting in the middle of this. This is Stark business.”

“You’re my friend. You’ve got to help me. Am I going to turn to Bran? He doesn’t care. Our sisters could go off and be juggling acrobats or sellswords or what have you, and he’d just say something ridiculous about destiny and let them at it.”

“Don't act as though they couldn't choose well enough for themselves. You’ve got one sister who’s the Queen of the North and the other sister killed the whole fucking army of the dead. Apologize for whatever you’ve done before you make it worse for yourself.”

“I’ve done nothing.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, ‘doesn’t matter’?” 

“It doesn't matter if you think you’re right. You won’t convince them of that. Yield. Yield or perish.”

“I’ve fought in a war, I didn’t yield then.”

“They fought, too, if you remember. You won’t win. Ever. Women are patient. How long are you planning on being angry? I guarantee they’ll wait you out.”

“I don’t know. But she was out of line.”

“Was she? I haven’t ever had a sister but it’s my understanding that siblings quarrel.”

“Not us. Not before, anyway.”

“Before what?”

“Before everything went to shit.”

“You mean back when you were a boy of seventeen and your sisters were just small girls? You mean when life was easy in your castle and all you had to worry about was hurt feelings because sometimes Lady Stark was mean to you? Of course you didn’t fight, then. What was there to fight about? The world is harder, now, Jon. They’re not going to be the same, don’t try to make them, and definitely don’t shame them for the ways they’ve survived it all.”

“Everything is different, now. I spent seven years thinking Arya was dead. I thought I'd lost her, and then she came back. I thought she’d be as I remembered her. I hoped.”

“That’s selfish.” Gendry said, having given himself this same lecture. “Do you resent that she’s different now or that you missed it all?”

“Both, I think.” Jon admitted.

“Let it go.” Gendry said. “You’ve missed enough. Don’t miss any more because you’re too pissed to talk to each other. Yield. Say you’re sorry and move forward with the sisters you have or you won’t have them any longer.” Jon sighed.

“You’re right. Do me a favor, Gendry? When you finally get married, find yourself a woman with a dozen sisters. You’d be a good brother.”

“That’s about the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.” Gendry admitted sadly. “I’d love a sister. I’d settle for even one.”

“I’ll sell you one of mine.” 

“I’ll tell them you said that.” Gendry threatened.

\---

Arya just changed her clothes and washed her face before heading to the dining hall to take her evening meal. She couldn’t very well avoid Jon forever. Eventually they would have to talk. Entering the hall, Arya saw Jon sitting at the high table, Gendry and Davos, too. Gendry had his head in his hands, not even looking at his food. As Arya rounded the table, Jon stood to block her path. 

“Where were you?” he asked, his voice harder than he intended.

“Did I miss my curfew?” Arya bit back, regretting it immediately but unable to stop. “I’m sorry, father. Next time I will mind the chaperones, I swear it.” She hadn’t come here to fight again, and yet, here she was picking a fight.

Jon sighed and pulled her into a hug, which was not at all what Arya had expected to happen. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispered, crushing her in his arms. “You’ve been my sister for twenty-two years, and we’ve never fought before. I guess we were just making up for it, weren't we?” Tears welled up in Arya’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, too.” she said breathlessly. “I shouldn’t’ve said all that about Robb. I knew it wasn’t true and I didn’t even mean it.”

“It’s already forgotten” Jon promised, pressing kisses into her hair. They broke apart to sit, but Jon held her hand and squeezed it. Arya saw that his fists were scraped and bruised.

“Fighting something?” she asked, rubbing his knuckles with her thumb.

“A wooden sparring dummy” Jon winced.

“Did it insult you?”

“Thought it might’ve” he jested. "It was looking at me funny."

“I’m sorry, Jon." She blurted out. "I’m sorry I told you about Robb that way. It wasn’t right.”

“It is forgotten. I do want to talk about it all, though, some day.” Jon told her, “When you’re ready, I want to know everything that happened to you.” He was breathing shakily like he was holding back tears. “Maybe knowing where you’ve been and what you’ve seen will help me understand why you’re leaving us again.”

“I’m not leaving.” Arya insisted, “I’m just travelling. Once the trade routes are set up and the ships can go back and forth, I’ll be home again. I just have to finish this.”

“So much happened, Arya. You grew so much and changed so much and I wasn’t there for it.” Jon said, “I have this memory of you and this woman in front of me and I cannot see a path connecting them. You’ve lived this whole other life without us and I know nothing of it.”

“It’s not some second life, Jon. It’s just one. You’re welcome to share it with me. I did not die, Jon, you needn't mourn me. I just grew up. I’m sorry you weren’t there, I am. It wasn’t any of our choice and I missed you terribly, but it cannot be undone. I am still your sister and wherever I go, I will always come home.”

“Where is home to you, now? Winterfell? Vilinos? King’s Landing? Some unnamed piece of road or sea in between?” 

“This is my home.” Arya said, squeezing Jon’s hand between both of hers. “Where my family is. That’s why I got the marques, you know. -I know you hate them, but I got them so I’d have you with me. All of you.”

“I can understand that. Wait- Marques, plural?” he demanded.

“Yeah, plural. Three.”

“Where are the other two?”

“They’re smaller, see?” Arya pulled her top to the side to expose her collar bone. Under it, nestled in the little shadowy space, were six small circles no larger than a seed. One red, three black, one white, and a red again.

“What are those?” Jon asked, looking closer and pressing his eyebrows together.

“They’re us, obviously.” Sansa said, walking up behind them. “Look,” she leaned over Jon and tapped each dot, one by one, her long finger lingering on them for a moment. “Rickon is red... Bran, Arya, and me in black then you and Robb. White and red again. I like that.” Sansa said, “It’s subtle. I am of half a mind to get a marque to match.” Arya smiled, but Jon looked absolutely scandalized.

“Sansa, you, too?” Jon said, broken, gesturing to her gown. “This is what you were plotting, isn’t it? You are allied, now, and I don’t stand a chance.”

“They’re just clothes, Jon.” Sansa said, rolling her eyes. “We get so little joy these days and so little beauty is left in the world. Let us have the things that make us happy. Let Arya dress how she wants and marque her body with whatever art she desires. Let her live. There is no harm in it.”

“I hope you get used to them.” Arya said. “The artist was not cheap, and they took quite a long time to ink.”

“Fine, I admit it, the direwolf is interesting.” said Jon. “but I count only two so far. What is the third?” 

“Oh, that? It’s a tiny thing.” 

“Show me.” Jon insisted. Arya held up her finger to her mouth, shushing him. There, along the inside of her finger, were tiny waves, the lines fine and exact. Jon grabbed her wrist to inspect it closer. “Waves, like the sea?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Like the sea, like the canals in Braavos, like the little stream in the Godswood.” Arya confirmed. She pulled her hand back and smiled. “Waters have always been important to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know the last chapter was filler. Here's the aftermath.


	6. Not Again

The headache lasted two whole days. Gendry spent the second day in bed, his head covered by sheets to block out the sun. Whatever that ka-fet shit was, Gendry swore he’d never touch it again as long as he lived, or any alcohol. He would live as chastely as a monk, never letting wine or ale pass his lips. For a day or two, anyway, until the urge to vomit subsided. Gendry didn’t clearly recall what he’d said to Arya or even to Jon, but remembered talking with both of them. They’d made up since, so he thought he must’ve helped. He couldn’t be sure, but he was still alive and not beaten bloody so he figured he hadn’t made it worse.

Finally, on the third day, he felt like himself again. When he woke around dawn, he felt the familiar itch to shape steel and he made his way down to the Street of Steel as quickly as he could before the rest of the castle rose. He knew that if he kept walking, he would reach Tobho Mott’s shop just at the base of Visenya’s hill. If it was still there. He was aiming, however, for the royal forges at the very start of the long road. Wearing the dirtied smithing clothes he’d brought with him, flanked by no bannermen, he almost felt like that young bastard boy he’d been, before Mott sold him, and again when he was hiding from the Lannisters under their noses. No one looked twice at him as he walked past, nobody bowed or averted their eyes. No conversations stopped in his presence. It was oddly comforting, this anonymity. He’d once heard Tyrion Lannister say that power resides where men believe it does, and he thought this must be true. No one believed him powerful, now, and so now he was not a Lord. His Lordship was a figment of thought, created out of nothing because people had been told that it meant something. He’d believed it, once. That Lords were just better, chosen by the Gods or born special. But that wasn’t true. Anyone could be a Lord if others believed them to be such, and it made him feel better that for all their superior attitudes they were just the same as him, strip them down and they would be nothing, just the same as he was.

Upon reaching the forges, Gendry suddenly became anxious. He did not look like a lord at the moment so they had no reason to allow him entry. He entered, anyway, and all the other smiths stopped working and looked up. Visitors must be rare.

"Lord Baratheon, is it?" Said one of them, looking to be the one in charge. "We were told to expect you. There's a forge there for you," the man said as he gestured over his shoulder to an empty workspace. The King had warned them.The King had known Gendry would come here. Why had the King cared? No matter, Gendry nodded his thanks and set to work. He had a blade in mind, a small, flexible dagger hidden within a bracelet. It would be a good gift to gain favor with the tall woman from Vilinos, and Gendry wanted to hear more of her stories. The blade would be tricky. It would have to be thin and flexible enough to sheath itself in a circular bracelet, durable enough to become straight again, and strong enough to pierce bone if need be. He’d never made such a blade, but he had some theories as to what techniques might work. He spent that whole first day from the earliest hours of morning to late in the afternoon just trying to figure out the blade. He pounded strip after strip of steel into points. He pounded some differently, rolled them differently, placed grooves in some. He pounded some thicker and some thinner, trying to see how thin it would need to be to flex like it would need to without sacrificing strength. He tempered them differently, some in water, some in oils. He worked methodically, affixing a piece of paper to each blade detailing the process each had undergone to keep track of them. To test their flexibility and durability, He curled all the newly cooled blades into small circles and intended to leave them overnight. In the morning, the blade that didn’t shatter and was able to recover its straightness would be his model, and he would recreate that process while starting work on the bracelet itself. It might take several days to do the intricate metalwork and build the hidden sheath as he imagined it. Gendry hoped it would, he hadn’t had his hands and his mind busy like this in a very long time. Having a task felt good, even if he did not. He’d forgotten to eat, and his body had grown shaky and fatigued rather quickly. A long time ago he’d survived long days forging on just a single bowl of brown, but now his stomach was spoiled with three meals a day and would not accept less. He’d missed breaking his fast and the midday meal, so his stomach growled angrily. The bell chimed twice as he was finishing labelling his final blade, and he thought there would probably still be something left in the hall for him. 

As he walked up to the Red Keep along the River Row, he could see the ships in Blackwater Bay below, including the one with the direwolf on the bow.  _ The Nymeria,  _ she’d called it, to the shock of no one that knew her. He looked out over the wall, resting his forearms on it and closing his eyes into the sea spraying breeze, cherishing the warm sun on his face for a moment. He heard a laugh which snapped him out of his daze. It was not a petite laugh, not a delicate one. It was more of a boisterous hiccuping than a real laugh, but it was hers and he’d know it anywhere. To his surprise, she was walking beside Davos, and she was laughing at something he had said. They were boarding her ship, and Gendry was approaching them before he thought twice about it. He had no reason to be there, but he wanted to know what had made her laugh, what she was showing Davos. He just wanted to be close to her and know what she was doing. Even if it wasn’t all he wanted, and he didn’t know what he wanted, it would be enough just to know.

The first mate Cyrwyn stopped him as he approached the rope ladder to the boat.

“Oi, what’s your business?” the man asked, placing a hand out to Gendry and forsaking Gendry’s title. He might’ve been offended, except he didn’t notice. Gendry was a full head and a half taller than Cyrwyn, so he stepped forward to him in an attempt to intimidate him. Cyrwyn only laughed with his crooked little smile and did not back down. “Alright, then. You want to bother her, it’s your funeral, innit? Hey, Captain, some visitor here demanding to come up.” 

Arya poked her head over the side of the boat and laughed. 

“Let him aboard, Cyrwyn.” she called down. Cyrwyn lowered his hand but did not move so Gendry had to step around him to make his way up the ladder and onto the ship. Stepping onto the deck he expected it to be solid but found it shifting, which found him on his ass. Arya doubled over laughing, holding her knees, and Davos’s cheeks had gone lightly pink with the effort of not laughing. 

“There you are.” Arya said, straightening and catching her breath. 

“Were you expecting me?” He asked, still sitting but trying to sound dignified.

“No, not ‘there you are’ as in ‘here on the boat.’ I only mean, now you actually look like you.” Arya replied, gesturing at him and stumbling over her words a little. Gendry looked down at his sooty hands, his smoke drenched, sweaty, blackened clothing. He blushed a bit.

“I was working in the forge.” he explained.

“On what?”

“Nothing.” he said. “A gift.” 

“A gift for whom?” 

“Well, m’lady, if it were for you I wouldn’t have told you I was making one.”

“I never asked if it was for me.”

“You insinuated.”

“Insinuated is a big word for you, big man.” she said, hands on her hips, now. He tried to lunge for her, push her or something, but fell again as soon as he tried to stand. If they’d been on dry land, Gendry would have tackled her, she’d have punched him and called him stupid as they’d done a hundred times before. Davos had been watching them the whole conversation, allowing them to forget that he was there. 

“Ehem” he said, breaking the tension in the air. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but we should really be seeing to the arrangements.” 

“Yes, of course Ser Davos”, she said, regaining her composure. “Lord Baratheon is free to join us if he can walk to the cabin.” Gendry scowled and pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled behind them, looking like a drunkard.  _ ‘How are they walking so straight when the godsdamn ground keeps moving?’ _ he thought to himself. When they stepped into the cabin, Gendry was surprised to find it spacious and well lit by lots of thick, frosty windows. You couldn’t see through the glass, but the light made it through just fine. Gendry was relieved to find chairs, and immediately fell into one. Arya and Davos kept walking to a large table, completely ignoring him.

“Do you want to see the maps?” Arya asked Davos. Davos just nodded excitedly, and Arya pulled down a boiled leather map case and tipped the rolled parchment out of it. Unrolling the maps, Davos moved the compass and the book so that they sat atop the corners, preventing the scroll from rolling up again. “Here” she said, pointing “is the island. Mostly round, maybe 300 leagues across. It’s at least a month riding from one end to the other. Maybe less if you don’t like your horse much.”

“That big?” Davos said, looking shocked. “How’s no one found it before?”

“Well, There’s three months between the west coast of Westeros and Vilinos, and another month between the west coast of Vilinos and the Port of Asshai through the saffron straits-”

“Asshai is a dreadful place.” Davos said, and Arya agreed.

“Aye. Stayed there as short a time as we could manage. Anyway, since the Vili never had good ships and no one from Essos or Westeros would ever sail for a month or more without a destination, nobody has had reason to reach their shores before now.” Arya explained. Moving back to the map, she said “I think the best trade route is going to be out of Oldtown. From there the island should be due east, so we will just sail into the rising sun until we see it.” 

“Solid plan. We should pack provisions for at least 5 months in case we get blown off the path.”

“Agreed. I retained most of my crew, but a few are retiring their service and returning to their families. You have the connections to procure replacements.” Not a question. 

“Yes, Your Grace. I have a few men in mind.”

“Good. I’ve got a list here of the men retiring that have specific skills. Burke, he’s a fighter, good with a short blade. We got attacked by pirates out near the Manticore Isles, and we had far too many men with long blades, we ended up having to repair all our ropes before we were fit to sail again. Tyrik, he’s skilled on the ropes and a good fisherman, too. Cyrwyn can navigate by stars and he can keep the men in line, he’s only twenty and two but he’s been sailing fifteen years. He speaks Tyroshi and Valyrian, and he’s got a real sense of loyalty and honor. Can any of your known men replace these I’m losing?”

“I’ll make my rounds, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Ser Davos.” Arya said with a smile. “It will be nice to have you on this trip, you’ve been landlocked for too long.” So Davos was going, then? Gendry hadn’t heard. 

“Couldn’t agree more, Your Grace.” he said, returning the smile and taking the list of men. 

“I’m losing my first mate so I’m glad to be taking such a trusted friend.” Davos smiled warmly at her and pressed his hands into hers. “I won’t have time to promote a first mate for this trip, and I’d ask you to serve in that role, Ser Davos.”

“Honored isn’t strong enough a word, your Grace.” Davos looked genuinely touched.

Their business concluded, Davos helped Gendry quickly off the boat. To his credit, Gendry did not vomit. He swallowed it a few times, but he did not vomit. There had been enough of that in the past week to last the year. Once they were out of earshot, Gendry turned to Davos. 

“So you’re leaving?” He said, matter of fact, with more of his sadness slipping through to his voice than he had intended.

“I’m the Master of Ships, son. The Vili need ships. I’ve been tasked with overseeing the construction and training their men.”

“But you want to go, don’t you?”

“It’s not every day new lands get discovered. It’s an incredible adventure to see something for the first time, and even more so to be the first to see it. Or one of the first. Forget that, what was that business between you and the Princess?” Davos asked, changing the subject. “First I find you two passed out in a far off hallway together, now that? I didn't know you two knew each other beyond formalities.”

“I’m not sure we do.” Gendry said. ‘ _ We used to’ _ he finished in his mind.

“It sure looked it to me. You’d better be thankful we weren’t in the Keep.” Davos said “Someone might have seen you, and that was improper to say the least. You mind your tongue with her, son. She’s a wild woman but that doesn’t give you pass to act the same.”

“I understand. I’ll keep my distance” said Gendry, like a liar

\---

Gendry had forgotten about his hunger when on the boat, but now he felt it again. He wasn’t in the mood for being Lordly at the moment, though, and did not want to return to the keep. He’d just seen Davos for the first time in a year, Arya for the first time in four, and they were both leaving him again. He was pissed, and sad, and damn lonely even though they hadn’t left yet. He excused himself from Davos’s company, saying he’d left something at the forge. Instead, he walked along the Hook until he found the inn his men were staying at.  _ The Bells _ , it was called, and Gendry laughed at that. It must double for a whorehouse and would doublessly have been Artan’s pick. He was surprised Ser Rory would agree to stay there. In the four years he’d known the man, Ser Rory had never spoken of, never spoke to, never looked at a woman other than his wife. After twenty years and five children, he still thought her as beautiful as the day they first met. Gendry liked to watch them, sometimes. The way Ser Rory’s face lit up when he saw her after a long day, the way he absently rubbed her hand as he held it, the way they could speak full sentences to each other with only glances. Gendry wanted that. Comfortable silence, knowledge that he was loved back, someone to share his life. 

Upon entering the Inn, Gendry saw his three men sitting at a corner table, laughing and drinking. He approached them and sat.

“Someone tell me a joke.” he said, interrupting their laughter. “I’d sell my left arm for a normal fucking conversation right now.”

“M’lord, my services are always at your disposal” said Artan, rising out of his seat and bowing deeply before sitting again. “Did I ever tell you lot about that time I dueled a chicken? So I lost, obviously, but it’s still a good story.”

“Obviously. Continue”

“I was six, you see, and the chicken’s knife was bigger than mine. That part was my fault. So this particular chicken was a right cunt, yeah? It always chased me as I came down from the hill where I watched the sheep. Every damn day, this fuckin’ demon bird pecked at my ankles and chased me up a tree. I’ve got scars. Did’ye know chickens can fly? Well I didn’t, but I fuckin’ found out, didn’t I? So I ran up the tree, the chicken flew up to follow me, claws first, and I fell right out that fuckin’ tree flat on my ass. I’ve been chased by wolves, M’lord, I’ve been chased by angry guards and angry fathers, I’ve been chased by damn Lannisters that wanted my head for a laugh, but I never, NEVER in me life, M’lord, ran as fast I did from that chicken. Once was safe in me room, I got myself a plan goin’. It was not a good plan, mind ye. Wish it were that I were six, but truly I’ve had worse plans since. I stole some knives from me mum’s kitchen, and I set about to find me that chicken. Now it didn’t seem fair to just walk up and kill it like any old chicken. This one was my sworn enemy. This was set to be a battle for the bard songs. A trial by combat for the life of the chicken. Its death would serve as punishment for its crimes against me. Given the seriousness of it all, I had to have my honor about me, and my father always said that it was dishonorable to attack someone was unarmed, so I armed the chicken, yeah? I tossed a knife to it, didn’t think which. I thought it wouldn't know what to do with a blade, but it knew, it did. That feathery fuck had murder in its beady little chicken eyes, I swear it. It picked up the knife in its beak and it ran for me. I knew fear, then, truly M‘lord. It ran at me but I stood my ground. It was too fast for me and it drew first blood, and so it won and all crimes had to be forgiven in the eyes of gods and men, as is the law with these things.” The barmaid brought them their meals, then, and set a whole roast chicken in front of Artan. Gendry raised an eyebrow at it. “I got my revenge, in the end, didn’t I? And I’ll eat every godsdamn chicken I see til I’m old and grey and don’t have any more teeth for eating fuckin’ chickens with.”

“And what happened to your chicken?” Renn asked.

“It lived to a ripe old age, then we made a stew.” Said Artan, ripping off a drumstick.

\---

Gendry returned to the smithy the next day, on a mission. He found the blades as he’d left them, and unwound each one by one from the leathers that had kept them curled overnight. The first stayed round, solid and unwilling to straighten. The second had already cracked, along with the third, the fourth, and the seventh. The fifth and sixth were suitable, but it was the eighth he would use. It was perfect. As soon as he undid the leather, it sprung back to straight. When he stabbed boiled leather with it, it pierced the leather easily. He began work on the bracelet, a thick bangle adorned with rolling, crashing waves, sea creatures below, and a sun, a moon and a thousand tiny stars above. The stars made it glitter in the light of the forge, as though small diamonds had been tapped into it. He made it larger than necessary, and made the inner bangle, smooth and a bit curved out at the edges to make it easy to slip a hand in. He clamped the inner and outer rings in place and bound them together with soft metal. As it cooled, he tapped lightly with his hammer it until it was smooth, the seal imperceptible. They looked forged as one piece, and the hollow for the blade would not be suspected.

He gathered a dollop of glowing metal and laid it out on the table, stamping it and carving it into the silhouette of a woman with the tail of a fish, the tail making something of a handle. In a smaller, softer hand, the fingers would curve around the waist and the tail, the blade coming between the first finger and the thumb. He’d need to test it, but it would not fit on his wrist. He slid the blade into its hidden sheath and it curved perfectly, the small button on the backside of the mermaid handle clicking into the notch on the bracelet, making it look like it was all solid. It was stunning, detailed, delicate, and it looked harmless. He left the forge and walked about the silk merchants, looking for a tall woman with long hands and delicate wrists to test the blade, ensure the draw was quick enough. He saw one, a blonde woman perusing the wares, and he made straight for her. She was not so tall but tall enough, not so willowy, but long limbed enough to work.

“Pardon me, M’lady.” he said cautiously, stepping in front of her. “I might beg a favor, if it isn’t too much trouble. I’ve forged a gift for a Lady, and I need to make sure it fits right. You’re about the right size, would you wear it for a moment?” He held out the bracelet, and she looked amused as she touched it.

“You are a talented smith, Ser. Is it always jewelry you make or do you specialize in swords?” The lady held out her hand, and he placed the bracelet easily upon her wrist.

“Mostly swords, M’lady. This is a blade, as well. Will you pull on the mermaid?” She did so, and raised her eyebrows as she slid the blade out. “How fast can you draw it, could you slash in one motion?” He asked, his brow furrowed and eyes focused on the bracelet. She turned from him and drew her thumb across the bracelet, whipped the blade out, and cut across the air in front of her. The motion was smooth. It would do. “Thank you, M’lady, for entertaining my favor.” he said, taking the bracelet from her and turning to leave.

“M’lord smith.” she called, and he turned, looking her in the face for the first time. “I hope your Lady likes her gift. It’s a lucky woman who would be so well defended.” He noticed that she was probably pretty, but tall and blonde and happy looking. Not at all his type. He smiled anyway, and turned on his heel, placing the bracelet in his hip bag as he made his way toward the Red Keep. 

After bathing, he went to the great hall and found the high table nearly empty, save for the women. Queen Sansa, Ser Brienne, Princess Keera, and Princess Arya were the only ones at the high table, all laughing amongst themselves. He approached, but curved at the last moment to sit by Jon and Sam who seemed to have been banished to a lower table. The bracelet was heavy in his hip pocket, and the unfamiliar weight nagged at him. Now was not the time, he could not speak to her freely surrounded by so many people. 

“How’re you, then?” he asked his old friends as he sat.

“Can’t complain.” Jon said.

“You can and you have.” Sam countered. “His sisters have been being mean to him.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“That’s normal. Girls are mean.”

“What do you know of girls, Lord Baratheon?”

“Only enough to steer clear of them” Gendry said, shovelling food into his mouth. 

\---

It was easy making conversation with Jon and Sam. The three of them could speak for an hour about nothing at all. Gendry had gotten quite a lot better with words lately. Why was it, then, that he couldn’t find the courage to speak to the Vilinosi princess for five fucking minutes? His palms were sweating, and he hadn’t even walked up to them, yet. Everyone had finished eating, and Sam and Jon were talking enough that Gendry didn’t have to, which suited him just fine. They talked about Gilly and Little Sam and Little Jon, They talked about Tormund and all that he and Jon had been up to beyond what was left of the Wall. They talked about their earlier days as men of the Night’s Watch. They talked about their fathers, they talked about their sisters. It was during this conversation that Gendry excused himself, lest he blush at the wrong thing or say something he shouldn’t. He had never drank much ale back at Storm’s End, but with all his friends together in the same place, every meal felt like a celebration. He didn’t drink too much, just enough that his hands felt warm and his lips a little numb. His laughter came easier and he wasn’t anxious anymore. On his way out, he saw that the high table was empty, all the women had retired for the night. Gendry knew somewhat which part of the Keep the foriegn princess was occupying, but he did not want to make the mistake of knocking on the wrong highborn lady’s chamber door after dark. 

He walked up and down the hall, and stopped suddenly when he heard laughter behind one of the doors, laughter high and sweet. It was her, he knew it. Without hesitating long enough to think his actions through, he squared up and knocked on the door confidently. The laughter stopped, and the door swung open to reveal not one princess, but two. ‘ _ Of course she has company. That’s why she’s laughing. Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot…’ _

“Hi!” He said, cheery enough to startle himself. “I mean, good evening, Princess. Princesses?”

“I have seen you before.” she said. “What is your name, then? I’ve never heard it said.”

“Gendry Baratheon, Your Grace.”

“Come in, Lord Braton.” Keera said and Arya laughed.

“Not ‘Braton.’ ‘Baratheon.’” she corrected.

“That’s what I say. Bration” Keera said defensively.

“No, like this: “Bar-a-thee-on.” Arya enunciated slowly. Gendry watched the way her mouth move as she said it, and it sent a shiver straight through him.

“Baraton!”

“BAR. ATH. EEE. ON.” 

_ ‘Fuck.’ _

“We are saying the same things.” Keera whined, stomping her feet a bit in a way that might’ve looked petulant on another, but on her was somehow endearing. “Bar-rat-own”

“Baratheon. Bar-ath-ee-on. Gendry Baratheon.” He felt that shiver end lower than the last one, and he blushed at it. Keera turned to him. 

“Can I just call you Va-tor?” she asked.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.” he stammered. “What does that mean?”

“It is your name in my language, means-”

“What is it that you wanted, Lord Baratheon?” Arya interrupted. “It’s quite late.”

“Oh, right. I made something for you, Your Grace.” He shuffled uncomfortably and dug around in his hip bag, pulling out the bracelet and presenting it to Keera.

“My Lord it is beautiful!” She said, slipping it onto her wrist and watching the light catch the twinkling of the crafted metal.

“The beauty is merely a distraction.” he said, getting a bit giddy. “Look here, if you tug on the mermaiden, she releases and shows the blade within.” Keera gasped a bit as Gendry showed her, and she drew the blade. “I love Westeros, Your Grace.” he explained. “I can’t not, I’ve never been elsewhere, but this is not a good place or a gentle place. I like you, Your Grace, you seem kind. Westeros does terrible things to kind people. When here, it is best to keep a blade, your secrets, and your friends close. If your enemies do get close, they won't see this blade until it is too late for them.”

“I thank you for your concern for me, My Lord. It is a gentle man who seeks to protect women, and a smart man to have them protect themselves. What can I do to repay this gift?”

“I was only hoping to beg some more stories of your home. It is my intention to go with the Princess Arya and the Westerosi expedition when they-”

“No.” it was Arya that spoke.

“What?”

“No. You are not coming.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot even stand on a ship, for one,” she said, hands on her hips. 

“I’ll get used to it.”

“You won’t. This is not a road journey where you can just tag along, Gendry. There’s a limit to our food, to our water, to our space. You’re big and you eat and you’re useless. I’m not wasting a crewman’s ration and bunk on a High Lord who wants to play at adventurer.”

“I’m not playing at anything. The Stormlands have some of the best sailors in the Seven Kingdoms, the best ships, too. If there’s trade to be brokered and work coming for sailors on those routes, it is my duty to negotiate for my people. Westeros is changing and I will not have the Stormlands left behind.”

“We have Lord Davos to represent your interests.”

“Lord Davos has other responsibilities.”

“Lord Davos has skills.”

“So will I, once you teach me.”

“What?” She didn’t look confused or shocked, just mad.

“I said it. I’ll go as a fuckin’ stowaway before I get left behind again. Either you train me up and have me earn my keep or I don’t earn shit, but I’m coming anyway.” Arya squinted her eyes. 

“I don’t think you will.”

“I don’t think you know me quite well enough to make wager, Your Grace.”

“Disagree. I know you plenty and I say you won’t last a week of training.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Gendry said, stepping forward so Arya had to look straight up to glare at him properly. It would have amused him if she’d stomped and huffed and hit his chest, but she didn’t. She stepped forward until he felt the heat coming off her, until he smelled her hair, until he could feel the little puffs of air that left her lips as she laughed. ‘ _ That’s not fair.’ _

“I’ll train you. If you fail or quit, you stay.”

“If I don’t?” 

“Then you earn your keep. You follow my orders like any other crewman. There will be no special treatment for your lordship. You make yourself useful.”

“Agreed.” 

“Perfect,” Keera yawned. “Now that this is settled, will you all leave me so I can sleep? Or should I go so you can keep fighting?”

“My apologies, Good night, Your Grace.” Gendry said, bowing slightly and turning on his heel to make for the door. Arya said something in what must be the Vilish tongue, then she kissed Keera on the cheek and left a few paces behind Gendry. When the door closed, they were alone in the dark hall, and Gendry shivered again. “I look forward to training in the morning, Princess. Where should I meet you?”

“Ha! You think you get till tomorrow? You’ll be sleeping on my ship, and if you last till morning we will leave from there.” Arya had already started walking, and Gendry followed her, catching up quickly. It was pitch black outside the keep, but she still did not stumble, her feet never made a sound. Her feet were silent and nimble, but her arms pumped hard as she stalked out of the keep and along River Row to the Mud Gate. Even with his longer legs, Gendry had to half jog to keep up with her. 

\---

Docked in Blackwater Bay was the wolf ship, the  _ Nymeria _ . It was a massive thing, and in the dark it’s carved bow looked alive, vicious. Gendry climbed up the rope ladder after Arya, and, to his credit, did not fall when he stepped onto the deck. He stumbled, and he followed her like the drunkest man in the tavern follows the barmaid. She climbed down into the heart of the ship and disappeared into the darkness. Undeterred, he followed her, his feet slipping from the steps several times before they reached the bottom. There were just a few flickering lanterns in the large room, and as his stomach lurched as he saw beds of cloth and woven rope swaying between the posts. 

“Sleep here.” Arya ordered pointing to a hammock. “Burke’s gone already and won’t be using it.” Gendry tried to settle his body into the hammock without flipping it, determined not to give Arya the satisfaction of seeing him on his ass. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, “Or should I start calling you Captain, now?” Arya was already climbing her way back up the ladder, so Gendry didn’t get to see her roll her eyes.


	7. Make Yourself Useful

When his mind drifted back to consciousness, Gendry could feel that it was the middle of the night, still hours before dawn. He’d only just finally fell into a fitful sleep, and was less rested now than when he laid down into the swinging hammock. The motion was unwelcome, and every time Gendry shifted he thought he might fall out, his muscles ached from the tension they had been holding for hours. 

“Are you sure?” he barely heard Arya’s voice say from above him. This must’ve been what woke him. He strained his ears to hear more of the conversation.

“I’ve got to, Captain,” said a half familiar voice. “My girl was pregnant when I left, I don’t even know if I’ve got a little boy or a lass waiting for me. I wasn’t ready to be a father when we set off, but I think I am now. I’m ready to learn, at least.”

“You’re a good man, it’s just-”

“I know, little Cap. I know. But you’ll get on fine without me. They respect you, now.”

“I know it, but I cannot imagine setting sail again without you by my side.” Gendry felt a small stabbing pain in his chest at that. 

“I’m not even that good a sailor, Captain. There’s better first mates to be had at any port in the Iron Islands.”

“Liar.”

“Alright, I’m the best one you’ll ever get and we all know it, I’m a damned gift from the fuckin Gods.” he laughed sadly. “You don’t need me though. You don’t need someone to knock heads together and make the men follow orders anymore. They’ll follow you. You’ve proven yourself a damn fine Captain these last few years, and I’ve told you everything I know about ships and sailing. All you need now is someone you trust to tell you if you’re going too far, someone you’ll listen to, someone to talk to when you’re missing home. You don’t need a sailor, you just need a friend around you to keep your wild little brain straight in your head.”

“You saying I’m crazy?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m also saying you push the people that love you away because being known scares you, but you won’t make it through like that. I’m saying you have to let someone in.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Yeah, you are. Not of being alone or war or death or fighting like normal folk, alls you’re afraid of is leaving yourself open. Being vulnerable. Being betrayed. That scares you.”

“Maybe so.”

“It’s a gamble, surely, but a needed one if you ever want to live like your miserable old shit told you to. To love someone and let them love you back is like letting them hold a knife to your throat and trusting them not to kill you. You can’t love from behind all that armor, there’s no trust.” 

_ ‘I shouldn’t be hearing this’  _ Gendry thought.

“I’m not wearing armor.”

“Not in a long time. Because you aren’t worried about what could happen to your body. If anyone attacks you, either you win or you die, that’s simple and you’ve made it more so by being the best fighter I know. Now the only armor that remains is in your mind. That kind of pain is not so simple. That’s the pain we ran from.”

“I didn’t run.”

“Yeah, you did. I did, too. You didn’t expect to live past the war, past your list. You lived for that list. Without your names to keep you going you didn’t know what to do, how to build something, how to stay still, how to be yourself. So you ran.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

“We’re back, now. That either means you figured out who you are and what you’re living for or you’ll have to do so quickly.”

“What if I can’t stay here without losing myself again?”

“What do you mean?”

“I found myself, built myself back up so far away from here, so far from my family and all the memories of the war. I’m terrified that being back here will undo all of it. I’m terrified that I can’t be sane here. That I wont fit in Westeros until I sink back down to where I started and nothing will have mattered.”

“Of course it matters. You know you can be happy. You know that war isn’t a part of you, that you can make a life without it. You know you’re good for more than killing people. And this isn’t the same Westeros we left four years ago. Your brother and sister are making it better. With Keera to help, maybe we can bring some of some of Vilinos to Westeros, that way you can be at home in both.”

“I just wish it weren’t so final. Once I’m home, I probably won’t ever leave again. I’ll get married to some stupid idiot and then never leave his castle. Once I’m home, I’ll have to give up my power. My choice, my say in anything.”

“Nah, that’s not you. Nothing is ever final. Until the day the stranger claims you, your life will be unpredictable and wild. You are a wolf, truly. You can’t be caged, and they all know it. A home is not a prison cell, Arya. A home is what you make it. You could no more give up your power than someone could give up their soul. It’s a part of you. You are power.”

“What’s all this flowery talk? Since when are you such a fucking poet, Cyrwyn?” Arya’s voice was tight, like she was close to tears.

“Just admit you’ll miss me and be done with it, you brat.”

“Aye, I’ll miss you, you ass.” They sat in silence for a minute.

“If you ever truly need my aid, Captain, I’ll come back, I swear it.” Cyrwyn said suddenly.

“I know. You’ve done so much for me, my friend, I wouldn’t ask more of you. If you ever need anything from me, me or my family, I’d make sure you got it. Take this, it was one of my father’s. He used to give them to his most trusted bannermen so they could seal letters with them and he’d know them to be true.”

“Capt-”

“Just take the fucking coin, Cyrwyn. It’s got a hole drilled and everything, you can wear it around your neck.”

“Thank you.”

“When are you leaving, then?”

“There’s a ship leaving at dawn bound for Pyke. I’ll sail to SaltCliffe from there and… meet my child, I guess.” 

“You’ll be a good father, Cyrwyn. Get going, then, dawn is coming.”

“Thank you, Captain. For everything.”

“Safe travels, old friend. Maybe upon our return we’ll have to stop in Pyke to resupply before reaching Old Town.”

“I’d like that. And hey, do me a favor?” 

“Anything.”

“When they sing songs for you, have ‘em remember my name, too? This all is the grandest tale I’ve ever heard, and I was a part of it. This’ll be the biggest thing I ever do with my life. I’d like my kid to hear them sing my name, give them something to be proud of.”

“I promise it."

Gendry heard a shuffling, then, and the sounds of two pairs of footsteps heading in separate directions. He stared at the boards above him and felt guilty, somewhat, for overhearing such a personal conversation. It hadn’t been his business, but he was glad she had friends around her while she’d been gone. That, at least, was a comfort. He lingered on what Cyrwyn had said for a moment,  _ ‘You don’t need a sailor, you just need a friend’.  _ Gendry could be that friend. He wanted to be. If she’d have him.

The next time he woke, it was just as his face met the ground. He’d been kicked and his hammock had flipped.

“What the fuck was that for?” he asked, pushing up to his knees to meet Arya’s gaze. He didn’t have to look up too far, she was not so much taller than him when kneeling. If they’d been closer he might’ve passed her chin. He would’ve laughed at that, but she looked angry, so he thought better of it.

“I hope you’re well rested, Lord Baratheon.” she said. “It’s time to train. Unless you’re not keen to spend six months or more sleeping in that bunk, in which case we can stop this now.”

“I slept great. Best sleep I’ve had in years.” he lied, following her up the ladder. 

As soon as he stepped onto the deck into the blinding sunlight, still squinting, she threw a wooden staff at him. When he failed to catch it, she brought the end of her own into his gut. He grunted and doubled over, but did not fall. He picked up his staff from where it had rolled and held it

“These are what we fight with on the ship. No clumsy hammers to break our boards or swinging swords to cut out ropes. You good with that?”

“Great.”

“Good.” she said, already swinging her staff at him. He tried to block, but she was quicker. She struck him in the side, then swiped his legs and he fell. “Again.” He got up and tried to mimic the way she held the staff, gentler and more towards the middle than he had before. This time, when she swung the staff, he brought his up straight to block it. She kicked the bottom of his staff, sending it into his crotch. He fell to the ground with another groan. “Again.” Arya waited for him to be fully upright that time before she started swinging at him. He took a step back, avoiding the first swing and deflected the second with a swing of his own, he then brought the staff back at her, more like a hammer swing than a graceful turn. She sidestepped that, though, and quickly brought her staff down across his face. 

“You move slowly and you’re clumsy.” Arya stated. “We’ll have to start at the beginning with you.” Arya had set up some training dummies near the stern, and Gendry followed her to them. “Stand like this,” she ordered, gesturing to her feet, wide set, one pointed straight ahead and the other turned out, planted further back. “Turn your hips and your shoulders. Side face.” She showed him how to hold the staff loosely in his right hand, the left assisting with the turning and grip changes. “Don’t grip too hard, you can’t spin it right when you do that. Gently.” 

“Do as I do.” she ordered, standing at the ready with her staff held in front.

“One.” she brought the right end into the dummy’s side.

“Two.” she swung wider with the other side to hit the dummy in the head

“Three.” she switched her grip and brought the end of the staff straight down to hit the dummy's shoulder.

“Four” she brought the lower end into the dummy’s crotch, and Gendry felt that one.

“Five.” She spun and with all the momentum of two hands she brought the staff across the dummy’s chest.

“Six” she jabbed with the end of it, hitting where a kidney would lay on a real opponent.

“Seven” she swung low and hit the legs, just below the knee. 

The moves did not flow gracefully, at first, but Arya continued to count the numbers and Gendry continued to mimic the strikes. Once he was able to switch his grip and do it quickly enough, she changed the order of the strikes.

“One” Right side.

“Three.” Right shoulder.

“Seven” Sweep the legs.

“Six” Jab the kidney.

“Three.” Right shoulder.

“Five.” Spin and swing.

“Six” Kidney.

“Stop.” he stopped his staff mid swing and looked at her, confused. “We are done with that for today. Go eat and be back here in an hour.”

“Yes, Captain,” he said, smiling. He felt he’d done well with the staff. He hadn’t quit, and that was something. He was winning. 

He didn’t quite have time to get all the way back to the keep, eat, dodge conversations with whoever the fuck, and get back to the docks in an hour, so he wandered around the shops about Fishmonger’s Square to look for a food merchant. He found one selling hand pies, and he ate it while walking the streets. 

“You look like hell!” he heard Artan’s voice yell as the man crossed the street to meet him. “Your nose is bleeding. Was bleeding. Dried now. Who’d ya fight? No, now let me guess! You, uh, you shagged some rich lady and her husband caught you, balls deep. Nope, that was me, doesn’t even sound like you. You, uh…. You saw a lord kick a beggar in the street and showed him what for, him and his guards. That sounds more like it, but then you’d have sword cuts and your fancy clothes, not bruises and splits. I know it! You got in a pub fight, innit? Someone disrespected some girl’s honor, that doesn’t do. Ye win at least?”

“You never shut up.”

“Yes, M’lord.”

“If you did shut up I’d tell you I was training. Long staff. I’m not good at it.”

“Got the piss beat out of ya, looks like. Who did it?”

“The Princess Arya Stark.”

“Damn. Couldn’t anything convince me to tussle with that one. I heard she killed a thousand of the dead men.”

“I was half a mile away during the fighting, so I didn’t see. In the end she killed all of them, I guess.”

“I also heard that she rode a direwolf into the battle.”

“That one’s not true.”

“Too bad. Would’ve been a sight. How’d you end up sparring with the fucking Princess, anyway?”

“I want to go with Davos to the new land and make jobs for our people on the trade routes, she’s training me so I can sail with her crew and be useful.”

“Trade routes. Yeah, no. You’re bored and you want to go off exploring. I get it, I won’t tell anyone.” 

Maybe Artan was right. Gendry wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to go so badly, just that he’d set his mind to it and would not let it go. He could not get left behind again. He couldn’t. Gendry left Artan, then, and made his way back down to the docks, only a short walk through the mud gate. He smiled broadly when he saw Arya waiting for him, but she didn’t smile back, her face that expressionless mask she’s worn so much in Winterfell. She looked him up and down, once, and he looked truly rough. He was sweaty, bruises were starting to blossom under the dried blood on his face. 

“You’re disgusting. Follow me.” His face fell. He had been sweating a lot, but it was hot and ‘disgusting’ felt a little unfair. She had already started walking away, so he followed her. They walked alongside the beach, and then up along the city walls curving along Blackwater Rush. They passed the Iron Gate and left the city behind before Gendry finally got curious enough to ask.

“How is this training? Where are we going?”

“Too long a walk for you, Lord Baratheon? Are your feet sore? Do you need a horse? Need me to carry you?” Gendry didn’t answer. They continued on, staying off the Ruby Road and as close to the beach as possible. When the city walls faded from their view, the trees got denser. Arya stopped at a heavily wooded area and looked out at the ocean.

“This’ll do. Did you ever learn to swim, Gendry?” He looked up, surprised at the familiarity in her tone.

“No.” he admitted, a bit apprehensively. He’d never been in water deeper than his waist if he could avoid it, never bathed too far into a river. Never even been in a river at all until he left King’s Landing. He’d lived by the Blackwater his whole life and never stuck a toe in it. 

“Well, today you will.” she fiddled with the edge of her waistband for a second, and then her trousers started to unravel. Gendry was surprised to find that the pants were one long bolt of fabric, folded and wrapped. As the soft fabric fell away, he turned his back to avoid looking at her in her smallclothes. Arya laughed.

“Don’t be such a fucking maiden. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” He turned back and tried very, very hard to look her in the eyes and nowhere else. She gestured at him with annoyance. “And why are you still dressed? Are you going to just stand there and watch me swim?” He pulled off his shirt and breeches as quickly as he could, following Arya into the crisp water. It wasn’t cold, per say, but it was brisk and colder than the sweltering air around them. He stopped where she did, the water coming up to her shoulders and his chest. The water was moving quickly past them. Even with the stillness on top he could feel the current pulling at him, gliding across his skin. The feeling was not entirely unpleasant, but neither was it welcome. It made him feel like he could get swept away in an instant, washed out to sea before he could stop it.

“Alright,” she said, “lean back so you can float. I won’t let you sink.” He fell back slowly and, as his feet lifted off the muddy bottom, her small hands found him under the water. He shivered a bit at her touch as she placed one hand at the back of his neck and one at the small of his back, guiding him until he was floating. His whole body was tense.

“Good. Holding your breath is good, the air in your chest keeps you above the water.” Gendry hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. “Hold the air, breathe out and back in quickly, hold the air. Good.” Her hands left his back and he floated there for a second, before two of her fingers found his spine. 

“It doesn’t take much strength in the water. See, I can move you just like this.” She extended her arm out and his whole body went with it, then she brought him back to her, his hand grazing her leg under the water.

“Sorry.” he said, pulling his hands to his sides. He hoped she couldn’t see how hard his heart was beating in his chest. 

“You can’t tense up like that. You’ll sink.” She removed her hands and he held his breath like she’d told him. “Sorry about this one,” she said, her fingers grazing the bruise darkening along his cheek and jaw. Her wet fingers left trails of water as they went, and he tried to suppress the shiver her touch evoked. He couldn’t hide the gooseflesh that popped up on his skin, though. She settled the palm of her hand on his jaw, cupping it gently, and she leaned over him, looking into his eyes with an expression he couldn’t quite place. Then, she shoved his head under the water. He kicked to standing, flailing his arms and sputtering, his body shaking.

“You can’t panic like that.” was all she said.

“You- I trusted you! I could’ve drowned!”

“How? You can stand, can’t you? You won’t drown, Gendry. Just don’t breathe in the water. Besides,” she said with a smirk “I was just washing the blood off your face.” She splashed him, and he slammed his hands into the water, splashing her back. 

“Now that you’re not so damn nervous,” she said, “We can start actually swimming.” She kicked off the bottom and arched her back so she floated gracefully. He did the same, but much less easily, his legs dangling under the water. She was at his side, then, their hands almost touching as they floated idly next to each other. 

“Kick your legs a bit, like you’re walking.” she instructed, and they began to move forward. His legs splashed as they broke through the water each time, and hers did not, moving silently under the rippling surface.

“Now, bring your arms to your side, quickly.” he did so, and shot forward. He did it again, holding his breath as he spread his arms wide, breathing out as he brought them to his sides, kicking the water all the time. He was doing it! Moving through the water and not drowning.

“Straighten up, but keep kicking.” Arya instructed. “Make circles with your hands, push the water down and keep you head up. When you can’t do that anymore, go ahead and float again.” He treaded the water as best he could, but his mouth and nose slipped under the water a few times, making him sputter. He was sure he looked entirely graceless, but he was winning. It had stopped feeling like a competition, though. She’d actually been helping him learn, and it didn’t feel like she wanted him to fail. His muscles were burning, and he was having trouble keeping his chin above the water, so he breathed in deeply and arched his back, kicking until his feet rested along the surface with the rest of him. He closed his eyes and savored the feeling of sweltering sun and crisp water on his skin. When he opened his eyes, he found Arya watching him.

“You’re starting to enjoy this.” She said.

“A bit.” he admitted. “Didn’t think I would. Thought it’d be… different. Less peaceful.” He turned to watch her as she dipped under the water and emerged on the other side of him. 

“You’ll be decent if you practice.” she said. “There’s a couple different ways. Backwards, like you’ve done, is best for saving energy and moving quietly. There’s ways to move quicker, those we will get to later.”

“So we’ll be doing this again?” he asked.

“Until you can swim out to that little island out in the Bay. And back. With gear.”

“That sounds like it’ll take a lot of lessons.”

“Every afternoon, I expect,” she said, dipping her head into the water. Gendry wasn’t entirely sure he could stand continuing to see her like this, alone and nearly naked. Her wet hair fell straight down, spreading out into the water and floating around her. Her tanned skin looked paler under the water as her limbs moved to keep her afloat, graceful as a dancer. A water dancer. Tiny droplets of water sat on her eyelashes and her lips and her collar bones and-

She splashed him. Kicked her foot up through the water, bringing a fat wave with it. She laughed but it hit his face mid-breath, causing him to cough. His rhythm faltered and his head bobbed under the surface. He couldn’t recover, and his arms found no traction as they flailed. His lungs burned from the urge to cough, but the threat of drowning kept him from it. He stayed underwater for just a few seconds, although it felt like hours, his heart was pounding in his ears and it was all he could hear. 

‘ _ I’m going to die _ .’ He thought before he felt strong hands catch him around his middle and pull him up. As he broke the surface, he pulled in a sharp breath that brought in more water than air, causing him to cough violently. Arya had one arm around him under his shoulders to hold him aloft and she was paddling with the other hand and kicking hard toward the shore. He kicked, too, to try and help her, and he gripped her arm until his knuckles turned white. When they met with the muddy riverbed, they made for land as quickly as they could on foot, trudging through clumsily as the water slowed their movements. Gendry crawled out of the water, still hacking up water, Arya’s hands still on his back.

“Why did you do that?” he coughed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” She said, as her hands fretted about. “Shit I didn’t think you’d panic.” He looked at her, and she looked scared.

“I’m okay.” he said.

“We’re done for today. And we’ll stay in the shallower parts tomorrow. Until you’re really comfortable. And I won’t splash you any more, I promise.” She was afraid. He hadn’t heard that kind of fear in her voice since they were children, and it made her voice sound younger. The way her eyebrows twisted together, the way her eyes went wide and she pressed her lips together, biting at the bottom one. She looked ten years younger in that moment. Just a dirty little kid, scared of everything and swearing she wasn’t. Fighting and running and being the strongest person he ever met. He hugged her. And she hugged him back. 

“I’m okay.” he repeated, still shaking. 

“You’re okay.” Arya pulled away from him. “Let’s get back to the city and get drunk, yeah?”

“Sounds good to me,” Gendry said as he stood, his voice deepened by the burning that persisted in his throat. Arya walked ahead of him to where she’d left her folded clothes, and Gendry took a moment before he followed her. The smallclothes she was wearing were just a strip of fabric, really, tied with leather straps at the sides. The curve of her ass poked out, he could see the muscles moving under her skin as she walked. Usually he wouldn’t have looked, but he’d almost died, and it was a beautiful sight. Life was too short not to appreciate these things. 

She folded the end of the long bolt of fabric into pleats, then she tucked it into the waistband of her smallclothes, then wrapped and twisted the fabric around her until the trousers formed. She shrugged on her small shirt over her bindings, tying off the strings and waited for him to finish dressing. In the high heat of the afternoon it took only minutes for their clothes and hair to dry fully. They didn’t talk much on their hike back to the city. When they approached the city walls, Arya stopped.

“You head in the Iron Gate, I’ll keep on and stop at the ship before heading in to the Keep through the Mud Gate. Might look odd if we come back together.”

“Right.” This whole afternoon, in his mind, they’d been Gendry and Arry, not the Lord Paramount of the East and the Princess of the Six Kingdoms and the North. He hadn’t given any thought to the questions that might be asked of them. That was comforting, for a moment, then terrifying. She had this way of making him forget himself. She always had. 

“I’ll meet you in the hall.” she said before taking off down the road, leaving him. He set off through the Iron Gate, through Flea Bottom, and toward the Red Keep. He knew it was still a bit early for supper, but headed to the great hall anyway in hopes for some drink and company. When he arrived, he was surprised to see Tyrion Lannister sitting with Queen Sansa Stark and a Kingsguard he didn’t know well, but had definitely seen before. Podrick Payne was the name, he was pretty sure. Even after all this time, the sight of a gold cloak made him anxious, even when worn by Ser Brienne, who Gendry had no doubt was his friend. She had dismissed all of the Kingsguard in service when King Brandon took the throne and named her Lord Commander. Or Lady Commander? The fuck knew anymore? At any rate, with Brienne in power and all her men hand-picked, he knew that none of the ones who had hunted him and his siblings down were still wearing the cloaks, but those things still made him jumpy.

They were the only ones in the hall at the moment, and Gendry knew enough about Tyrion Lannister to know that he had wine with him, so he approached. 

“Mind if I join?” he asked as he reached them.

“Not at all, Lord Baratheon. Please, sit.” The Queen said warmly. “My ex-husband is just regaling us with stories.” 

“Your Grace I would implore you to not introduce me that way. It makes others uncomfortable.”

“It does, your Grace.” said the Kingsguard.

“Oh, hush, Pod. You were there, you know what it was like,” she said.

“I don’t need to.” Gendry assured the group. “That’s your business, I’m just after your wine.” Sansa laughed.

“Well, My Lord, you certainly look like you need it. Have you been in a fight?”

“Yes, your grace.” 

“Intriguing.” Tyrion said. “Also intriguing that you don’t offer details. I’ve found most men in your family to be the bragging sort. You’re not.” It wasn’t a question, so Gendry didn’t answer it. No matter, Tyrion Lannister could talk enough for the both of them. “If you won’t offer information, but you are in a drinking mood, let us play a game.”

“I hate this game.” Podrick groaned.

“I like games.” said Arya, approaching them and planting a kiss on her sister’s cheek before sitting beside her. “What are the rules?”

“This hall will be flooded with people in an hour. Why don’t we all take our supper in my chambers so we may play freely.”

“I’d rather not. This game is always trouble,” said Podrick, trying to walk away. Tyrion looked aghast and put his hand to his chest.

“Ser Pod, you have saved my life and been my close friend for many years. It pains me that we don’t see each other, and pains me more so that you would avoid me when we have the chance.” Tyrion choked back a fake sob. Ser Podrick rolled his eyes and followed them, grabbing another pitcher of wine.

“So, Your Grace,” he explained to Arya, “the rules are quite simple. You challenge a person playing, and then you make a statement you think to be true about their lives. The more obscure, the more specific, the more secret, the better. If it is true, the accused drinks. If it is untrue, the accuser drinks.” They all settled into armchairs in Lord Tyrion’s chambers around a small table covered in pitchers of wine, olives, and fruits. 

“I’ll go first” Tyrion offered. “Lord Baratheon, you’ve been in a fight. You’ve been in a fight with another lord because they deem you unworthy of your position.”

“Drink.” Gendry ordered, and Lord Tyrion did, eagerly.

“No matter, I have plenty more questions, and I will get to the bottom of it. Let’s go in the circle, then. That makes you next, Your Grace.” Sansa straightened.

“Alright. Pod. You don’t go to the whorehouses because you think it would offend Ser Brienne.”

“Know it would.” he said, drinking.

“Does this mean I’m winning?” she asked Tyrion.

“Perhaps.” he answered. “Princess, your turn.” Arya scanned the room, deciding on a target. 

“Lord Tyrion. There are times you wish you were still married to my sister.” he drank and did not speak on it, so Ser Podrick went ahead with his question.

“Your Grace. You have a piece of blackmail damning enough to ruin the life of every person in this room.” Sansa drank, and winked. Arya laughed.

“How’s that a secret?” she asked.

“The secret is she’s too kind to use them.” Pod replied.

“A dangerous theory, Ser Podrick.” said the Queen. “Any intention on testing it?”

“None at all, Your Grace,” he said with a small bow. It was Gendry’s turn now. He had a million questions, but none he could ask here.

‘ _ Why’d you really leave?’ _

_ ‘What are we to each other?’ _

_ ‘Do you love me?’ _

_ ‘Why didn’t you say goodbye?’ _

“Lord Tyrion. You don’t drink as much as you have people think you do. Because you like being underestimated, but you love being smart, so you play at the drunk so you can have both.”

“Ouch. That has, at times, been true. I’ll give it to you.” he said as he drank. “Lord Baratheon. You don’t want to answer questions about your bruises because you’re protecting the person who hit you.” Gendry considered that for a moment. He was protecting his privacy and hers, more so than he was protecting her from the punishment for some wrongdoing.

“Come on, then. It’s either right or it isn’t.” Sansa said.

“It’s not so simple. I’m thinking.” Gendry said. “No,” he decided, “not protecting.” Sansa’s turn again.

“Sweet sister. You don’t plan on coming back from this next voyage.”

“Drink,” Arya said, sounding annoyed. As her sister drank, Arya pushed up the stem of the goblet, forcing her to drink it all down. “And that’s what you get for thinking it. My turn. Hmmm. Sansa.”

“Oh shit.”

“You never told Jon what you found under my bed in Winterfell.” Sansa refilled her goblet and drank. Gendry was intrigued by that, he’d have to remember to ask her about it later.

“Lord Baratheon.” Ser Podrick said. “You secretly like all those bard songs about your love.” Gendry managed to scrunch up his face.

“Drink.” He ordered, curtly. It wasn’t technically a lie. He didn’t like all of them. Most of them were sappy shit. He only sort of liked the one and that’s only because it made him sad.

“For fuck’s sake will someone please get the Baratheon to drink!” Tyrion begged, then looked suddenly startled. “That may be the first time those words have ever been uttered.”

“Your Grace” Gendry said to Sansa. “You do not wish you were still married to Lord Tyrion.” Sansa laughed and drank, patting Tyrion’s arm comfortingly as she did so. Tyrion looked determined to catch Gendry and make him drink.

“Lord Baratheon.” he said, and then paused to think for a minute. “I heard from Ser Davos today that you are planning on joining the expedition to Vilinos. The reason you say is not the reason you’re going.”

“Too vague.” Gendry argued.

“Fine. You’re going because you are looking for something particular.” 

That was true enough, so Gendry drank.


	8. Another Long Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to update the tags for this one. Have fun!

Word gets around. In a place like King’s landing where everyone knew each other and the fat lords and ladies had nothing better to do but sit around and gossip, word got around rather quickly. Gendry didn’t find it particularly noteworthy that he was interested in joining the expedition to Vilinos. Every fucking Lord and servant and squire wanted to go. It was the new end of the world, new land and new people and new hope when all Westeros had known for decades was darkness. Of course he wanted to go. Though Gendry didn’t find it notable, others certainly did. Davos had already asked him about it, as had Brienne, a dozen Lords he knew by name or face but didn’t care to know further. It was known that he planned to leave, and it was known that he was being trained by the Princess. They’d been seen in the training yard doing more lessons with the staff. Gendry had even been seen sitting in the training yard for hours tying hundreds of knots, the last fifty or so stained because his fingers bled from the rough rope. She’d made him retie the poorly done ones even so, and he didn’t think she felt badly. Arya Stark was not made for pity. She swore that knowing different knots and doing them quickly may save his life on the ship, and while he doubted it, he didn’t know enough about ships to argue. He’d had to learn to gut fish, which wasn’t terrible except he had to catch them and he was rather terrible at that part. Gendry wasn’t unused to hard work, but this was so different than smithing. He’d earned his master rank years ago, he knew exactly what to do and his tools always felt like an extension of himself. This was all new and he fumbled with each new task before it settled into his muscles. Despite that, he’d been excelling, in his own opinion. It never took him more than a day to get a task down right. Maybe not mastered, but competent enough. He was quick enough with the staff to spar some of the crew, now. Not quick enough to spar full speed with Arya. She left enough bruises at half speed and Gendry figured she’d knock him down and beat his teeth in without so much as breathing heavy if he gave her any reason to. He’d stick with the crew, for now. 

Despite everything the gossipers had seen, they had never seen his swimming lessons. Gendry hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about them, and he was glad of it. He wanted to keep those lessons between the two of them. It wasn’t just the impropriety of it that worried him, it was how those lessons made him feel that he wanted to protect. He cherished those lessons, savoring the hours they spent alone together. When they were alone they would slip back into old habits, walking side by side, bumping shoulders together as they japed, her calling him stupid all the while. He almost called her Arry a few times. He found such comfort in these moments. He hadn’t managed to meet Arya before her life became one of trauma and pain, but he’d been close enough. He knew her before she knew how to lie and kill and walk without noise. He knew her before she was the slayer of darkness and a servant of the death god. He decided that this meant he knew her in a way he was sure few others did. When he looked at her, he did not see a legend made flesh, he saw little Arry, bold and without the good sense to feel fear. 

He looked at her now, resting on one of the rocks, laying in the sun. her eyes were closed and she was still wet with sea water. She was entirely relaxed, unarmed, and her breathing was deep and steady. Gendry liked to think she softened when it was just the two of them. Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe he’d imagined a lot of things.

“I think you’re ready.” she mumbled, not moving from her sunsoaked rock.

“For what?” he said, jerked out of his thoughts.

“To swim out to the island in the bay. If you can do that, you might survive a shipwreck.”

“I am winning, admit it.” he said, smirking. She sat up, then, garing at him.

“You’re not winning anything.”

“I am though. I tied the knots just like you said and I am getting pretty damn good with that staff. I even caught a fish. I’m a sailor, now, and you’ll take me on your ship. And that means I’m winning.”

“And what a win it’ll be. What’s your prize, then? Puking off the side of my ship and then scrubbing my deck?” she mocked

“You were going to make me scrub the deck?”

“Am. I am going to make you scrub the deck.”

“I am still winning.”

“You’re still stupid.” she said, sitting up and glaring at him. “Fine then, you want to win so badly, let’s go now.” She stood and stomped toward the water.

“Weren’t we supposed to have gear?” he called after her, regretting it instantly.

“We don’t have any here, we’ll do the gear next time. We will swim out, rest for a few minutes and swim right back. We’ll be back to the keep by nightfall if you aren’t too slow.” Gendry looked up at the sky, the sun well past midday and the horizon cloudy. He twisted his eyebrows together but he didn’t say anything. He wasn't going to give her a reason to say he was scared or a quitter. 

“Fine” he said as he joined her on the shore and pushed forward into the water. He started swimming, leaving her to catch up. He swam on his chest, breathing to the side as his arms pushed him forward, kicking the water as hard as he could. . This type of swimming was best for speed, he’d learned. He’d show her slow. 

After many minutes, his breaths became short and his arms burned with the effort of moving the water. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, treading water and taking in his surroundings. He’d made it half the distance, too far to turn back even if he wanted to. The distance from shore seemed too far to make, the distance to the small island was just the same. He became suddenly, violently aware that there was no ground beneath his feet, only waves and the creatures that lived in the depths of them, eating whatever sank low enough. Panic gripped Gendry’s chest, ready to overtake him when Arya came within reach. 

“Why are we stopped?”she asked, swimming up beside him. 

“It’s too far,” he replied. “I don’t think I was ready. I’m going to drown. I really did not want to die in King’s fucking Landing. Anywhere else is okay, but-”

“Shut up. You’re not going to drown. There’s no use getting tired treading water. Keep moving forward” She stayed by his side as they swam, now, just in case. It felt like they’d been at it for hours, and it was somehow familiar. The water, the burning in his arms, it all brought back memories of rowing from Dragonstone to the shores of King’s Landing years earlier. He’d been so sure he would die then, too. 

By the time they reached the island’s shores, the sky was darkening and the clouds that had been just along the horizon now filled the sky. Gendry sat in the sand tired and sore and hungry, watching Arya as she examined the beach.

“That was further than I thought it would be.” she said, picking up a stick and breaking it into a pointed end.

“Further than you thought?” Gendry demanded, anger rising in his voice. “You didn’t know the distance? You said we’d be back by dinner, we’ve barely made it here and it’s nearly dark! What if it’d been further? We could’ve drowned!”

“To be fair, I thought the island was smaller.” she said calmly, looking around. “There’s a whole little forest. Probably no game, though.” 

“I thought you were supposed to be the Captain! The one with the plans and the maps and the one who knows the DISTANCE.”

“Probably some good plants, though. Have to get looking soon before we lose the light. Shelter, too.” 

“Shelter?”

“We can’t go back tonight. It’ll start raining any minute now and there’s lightning over the bay.” she said, pointing.

Gendry groaned. Stranded in a storm was just what he needed. Stranded with no food and barely any clothes. Annoyed, and resisting the urge to take it out on Arya, he stormed off towards the woods, looking for shelter like she said. He caught sight of rocky walls through the trees and approached them, hoping to find a cave or an alcove. He followed the edge of the rock face further into the forest and soon found a shallow cave, just tall enough for him to stand. At least his luck wasn't total shit. It was deep enough to keep them dry, so Gendry started dragging firewood into the cave before the rain could come and wet it. He’d just built a small tower of wood and kindling when Arya found him, bringing with her some fish speared through with her stick. He didn’t look at her when she came in, glaring at the twig he was twisting furiously between his hands, hoping desperately to catch a spark on the dry leaves beneath it. Arya knelt behind him, watching him with narrowed eyes and brushing out her damp hair with her fingers. She looked like she had something to say. Gendry fought the urge to ask her what it was or yell at her again for being irresponsible and getting them stranded. For being such a child and only thinking of herself. He knew if he yelled, she would yell back and she was so much better with her words she’d twist his up in a knot and make him apologize regardless of if he was right or not. Which he was. The only power he had was to remain silent when she wanted to argue with him, which he knew would drive her crazy. Gendry clenched his jaw tight, grinding his back teeth together to keep his mouth shut. Arya could see his jaw muscle working and knew he was angry with her, which pissed her off. The sparks caught the leaves and Gendry carefully breathed the smoking ember into a small flame. He lit the tinder and the fire grew into a steady blaze. Gendry stoked the flame, adjusting the logs. Arya placed the fish down by the fire and walked out of the cave into the steady rain. 

“Where are you going? Home?” he asked her. “We can’t leave. We’re stuck here.”

“I’d rather be wet than play whatever game this is.” she said, gesturing wildly at him.

“Don’t be a child. You’ll catch your death in the rain all night.” 

“That’s fine.” Gendry felt real anger rise up in him in a way it hadn’t in years. He never let himself get angry anymore, but Gods, she was infuriating.

“You’d always rather walk away than face the consequences, right? That’s what you do.” he bellowed after her. She stopped, then, whipping her head around to look at him.

“Consequences? This is my fault? I can make the rain fall? I can make lightning, too?”

“No, but you’re the one who dragged us out here with a storm rolling in. You’re the one who just had to make the trip before it was time because you were annoyed and impulsive. You were the one who didn’t even have a plan.”

“You didn’t have to come. You could’ve said no.”

“No I couldn't.”

“Why not?” she demanded, stepping closer to him.

“You know why.” he said.

“No I don’t. Tell me why.” 

“Tell me why you left. Tell me why you didn’t even say goodbye.” Arya flinched.

“It wasn’t about you.”

“Of course it wasn’t. It’s never about anyone else. Arya first, always. No matter what. You’re selfish.”

“You think I didn’t miss you? That I didn’t think about you?”

“No, I don’t. I think you were off on your grand adventure and I don’t think you spared a thought for anyone you left behind. You left me. Us. All of us. I was alone. Jon was alone beyond the Wall. Sansa was alone in Winterfell. Bran was alone here. You left so you could be free while the rest of us stayed and did our duty. ALONE. The war was over and we had to pick up the pieces while you got to forget.”

“How dare you?” Arya whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “I was alone, too, and I didn’t forget anything.”

“Don’t you cry and make me the villain here. Just because I’m the only one telling you the truth. What? You don’t think your family feels the same way? Abandoned? Cast aside? Betrayed? Do you think you can come back from that? Why would any of us ever trust you again?” 

Arya opened her mouth to say something back, but her words caught in her throat. She turned away and walked out of the cave into the pouring rain, her hot tears mixing with the rain as it soaked her. 

“That’s what I thought!” Gendry yelled after her.

\---

Arya stomped away from the cave, moving through the forest as fast as she could. She did not care where she ended up, so long as she put distance between her and Gendry. She couldn't stand him when he was like this. Stupid and bullheaded. What did he know? He was wrong. She never forgot anything. All the horror and pain, she remembered all of it. Every corner of Westeros was soaked in blood and she remembered it all. Even Winterfell. She still felt the Night King’s hand on her throat. She still smelled the funeral pyres. Childhood memories of sitting in the library reading adventures of ancient warrior Queens had been replaced by holding her breath and hiding from the dead among the shelves. Winterfell could never be the same home she once knew. The dead took her home from her. Every happy memory she had there had been poisoned by that battle. Her only happy memories of her family, gone. Other things haunted her, too. The Twins. The Red Wedding. Robb. Harrenhall. The Tickler. Jaqen. The Westerlands, the Lannisters.The Riverlands. The brotherhood. King’s landing. The stable boy. Her father. Nowhere in Westeros was untouched. Every place or person brought back something terrible she’d buried.

‘ _ Gendry was there, too.’ _ she thought, begrudgingly. ‘ _ He was there and he saw the same things, but he stayed.” _ Arya sat, leaning on a thick tree. She leaned her head against it and turned her face upward, letting the rain hit her through the tree. Fuck. He was probably right. She was selfish. She had been the only one to leave after the war. If anyone had the right to, it would have been Sansa. She’d been through things Arya hadn’t. Why didn’t Sansa get three and a half years on a beautiful island? All Sansa got was cold and loneliness and an empty castle full of sad memories and death. It wasn't fair. Nothing had ever been fair. Arya had been alone and had to keep herself alive for so long she had forgotten what fairness was. She took every advantage she could if it would protect her, and she didn’t stop when the war ended. Even now she acted like a cornered animal just trying to live another day, kicking and scratching and doing whatever it took, whatever it cost to keep herself safe. Now all she protected herself from was memories, and she had done selfish things, hurt so many people to put distance between herself and the past.

Arya curled her knees to her chest, finally feeling the cold seep into her bones. She shivered in her smallclothes, her bare feet sore from the twigs and the rocks that had cut them as she walked through the forest, too mad to notice at the time. Arya pushed the thought of the dry cave and the warm fire from her mind. She couldn’t crawl back there, admitting he was right and she was wrong just for a little bit of comfort. She’d been through worse than a night in the cold. She would leave as soon as the storm broke and there was any light. She’d make the trip back to Vilinos soon and finally be free of Westeros and all the memories she had of it. The journey West was never supposed to be permanent. She had always intended to come back, but if Gendry was right and her family didn’t need her here, want her here, then it would be better if she just left. Wouldn’t it?

\---

Gendry sat by his fire and brooded. She’d stomped off into the rain to sulk instead of admit he was right. Of course he was right, she hadn’t even been able to argue back, gaping like a fish. His mood cycled between the feeling of vindication, the thrill of winning their argument and the guilt about making her cry. Since she came back into his life he'd tried so hard to pretend everything was normal. He’d wanted to pick up where they left off, that awkward space between friends and something else, but his hurt and confusion had never really gone away. It just waited there, bubbling under the surface, and as soon as he allowed himself to be angry at her it felt like the floodgates had opened and years of emotions had come surging out. 

He felt better, now. Clearer. He’d said his peace. He still wanted his explanation, but his feelings on her leaving were out in the open, now, and it was a relief to pass that burden on to her. Now she couldn’t pretend everything was fine, she would have to put in the work to fix what had been broken. She was the one who left, it was her job to fix it. Gendry threw more logs on his fire, sending sparks high. He rubbed his hands together, holding them out to the growing fire. With the damp air, the cold rocks beneath him, and his lack of clothes, Gendry could barely stay warm even with the fire. He stole a sideways glance out into the rain, wondering how long she would stay before she came to eat crow in exchange for a meal and some warmth. He felt stupid, then, for asking himself a question he already knew the answer to. Arya Stark was the most stubborn person he had ever met. She would have no qualms with causing herself discomfort or injury to avoid losing this battle of wills. Or she could be injured. She could have tripped and fallen, twisted her ankle. She could be in danger while he sat in his shelter, grumbling over old wounds. 

Gendry groaned, throwing more logs on the fire so it wouldn’t burn out while he looked for her. The rain was falling in thick sheets making it nearly impossible to see. Because Gendry knew Arya, he walked into the brush where she’d stormed off and walked straight, through branches and thickets. He remembered when she would run off from the group of Night’s Watch recruits after Lommy and Hot Pie had teased her. She’d get this steely glare and just march off, not looking, not caring where she went. She would walk in a straight line until her anger died down and then she would sit and wait for someone to come after her or sheepishly walk back into camp after she’d decided she’d been gone long enough. She didn’t change her path or look where she was going. Once, she’d stormed off and walked right into a bandit camp and had to outrun the men as they chased her down. Walking through the brush, he found a broken branch hanging down and knew he was on the right path. There was no way to call out over the deafening rain or track her footprints which washed away the moment they were made. All he could do is hope she hadn’t gotten better at storming off in ten years. He was just beginning to think he’d gotten off her path when he spotted her, curled up under a tree with her head on her knees, her soaked hair covering her face.

He was not going to argue with her again, yelling over rain like an idiot. He was not going to give her a chance to fight him and refuse to come back to the cave. He was not going to spend a minute more than necessary in the wet and the cold. So, he walked over to Arya and scooped her small frame up in his arms before she even looked up. She struggled against him for a moment, startled, but he held her too tightly for her to get away and she settled, keeping her arms crossed and her face turned away. He pushed through the brush back the way he came. Finding the cave again was much easier, the firelight visible from quite a distance even through the rain and the trees. 

Gendry dropped her roughly on her feet as soon as he entered the cave, and he walked over to the fire, crouching down close to it and letting the rain dry on his skin.

“You want to pout, you do that but you do it here where I know you’re safe. We will deal with the rest later.” he said, his voice hard. Arya nodded and avoided Gendry’s gaze, focusing on twisting the water out of her long hair. Arya turned her back to Gendry and lay down on the cold stone ground, closing her eyes. Gendry lay down as well, staring up at the rocky ceiling and watching the firelight dance to the sound of her breathing and the rain pounding on the cave for hours until his back ached from the hard ground and the fire grew low, but he could not fall asleep. Gendry turned his head and looked at Arya for a moment. He knew the way her breathing changed when she slept. She was still awake, just pretending to sleep.

Gendry sighed and got up, throwing more wood on the pile. He paced by the entrance to the cave, watching the rain fall. He heard Arya shifting behind him and thought she’d rolled over, but jumped a little in surprise when a cold hand gently touched his back.

“Gendry.” Arya said softly, barely over a whisper. “Just look at me, please.” He turned. He held her gaze for a minute, his anger fading away as he looked at her. She looked tired and sad, and he knew the fight was over. In one look, harsh words had been forgotten, wrongs forgiven.

“I-” he’d just opened his mouth to apologize when she lunged forward and silenced him with a kiss. Gendry cupped her cheek and kissed her back deeper, not wanting to give her a chance to pull away. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tight. She arched her body into his, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him down to her. Everywhere their bare skin touched, Gendry felt heat rise up, her skin burning his. Her lips were so soft. He’d forgotten how soft her lips were. He kissed her deeply, desperately, and she kissed him back with the same need. Arya walked backwards until her back pressed hard against the cold cave wall and Gendry followed. He lifted her by the waist and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips. With better reach, she ran her fingers through his thick black hair, tangling at the base of his neck. He kissed down her neck and savored the little sighs she made, the way her thighs squeezed around his waist as he nipped at her ear. Arya reached between them and frantically untied the bindings on her chest, throwing the cloth carelessly away. Gendry squeezed her ass with one hand to keep her aloft and moved the other up her waist, lingering just a moment on her scars before cupping her breast, then roughly lifted her up higher against the wall so he could bring his mouth to her chest. She felt the rocks of the cave wall scraping against her back as he did and gasped at the unexpected pleasure the pain brought with it. He flicked his tongue over her stiff nipple and bit it gently. Gendy felt himself groan as Arya hissed through her teeth and arched her back, leaning her head as far back as she could. Her skin felt so sensitive she could feel trails of heat where he had touched her, like his hands were made of fire. Their first time had been so quick, they hadn’t known when the war bells would ring, so he hadn’t gotten the time to touch her like this, to explore her body and find all the things that would make her happy. He wanted to find all the sensitive areas of her body, kiss every inch of her. He felt her, hot and wet through her smallclothes pressed against his stomach. He moaned into her chest and her grip on his hair tightened. She reached down and pushed the waist of his small clothes desperately. She leaned to the side to try to extend her reach, to push them further down until they fell around his ankles. Gendry laughed against her skin and kissed her. She met his kiss furiously, but he kissed her back deeply, gentle and slow, desperate to make this last. He pulled away from the wall, stepped out of his smallclothes and walked toward the fire where he lay Ayra down on the warmer rocks. She kept her legs wrapped around his waist and he pressed his body into her, gently pinning her to the ground. Arya squirmed beneath him, rolling her hips against him impatiently, biting the flesh of his chest hard. Gendry ran his rough, calloused hand along her thigh, catching her behind the knee and guiding her leg up over his shoulder. He kissed the inside of her knee, letting his breath linger on the wet skin. She moaned and he could feel the muscles in her thigh shaking beneath his lips. He watched every move she made, Her head was thrown back and her cheeks were so flushed, her hands massaging her breast and caressing his chest. He untied the leather sides of her smallclothes and tossed them aside, lowered himself down and kissed her core, running his tongue up and down the length of her, marvelling at how wet she was and how sweet she tasted. He stopped when he heard her gasp and felt her body tense. He flicked the small knot of flesh with his tongue and then pressed his thumb into it, rubbing in circles until her breathing quickened and she threw her head back. Her breath came ragged, desperate. Just as she began to peak he entered her, snapping his hips forward to fill her completely in one swift motion. She dug her nails into his arms and cried out, arching hard under him. He felt her walls tighten and flutter around him as she came but he urged himself to stay still, refusing to follow her yet. He kissed her sweetly and pressed his forehead into hers while she rode out the aftershocks of pleasure. She cupped his face as he began to move, showering him in soft kisses as she moved her hips to meet him. He moved slowly, wanting to savor the all time they had left together. He wanted this moment to last forever. They moved together in a gentle rhythm, their faces pressed together tenderly. She pulled her knees up higher and gasped when the new angle allowed him to hit something new within her, scratching her fingernails across his back, leaving angry red lines across it. He began to move faster as pressure built in his core.

“Gendry...” she breathed his name into his ear and he fell apart, tensing and moaning loudly into her kiss as he released. “I missed you.” she whispered against his lips.

“I- missed you- so much.” he whispered between kisses. They were still, then, just for a moment, laying together by the dying fire while the sky lightened outside. They still had a lot to discuss, but that conversation would come, and for now they were content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! this was my first time writing explicit scenes, and I'm super gay and don't really know anything about straight sex so I apologize if it's awkward.


	9. Secrets

They left the island at the first tinge of light on the horizon and reached their swimming beach just after the sun had risen completely. Once they left the cave, they moved as quickly as they could, not able to take any time to rest or talk before hurrying back to the castle before the keep would rise. They found their clothes, windswept and wrinkled, but thankfully not blown completely away. As they approached the city, the scarred walls coming into view, Gendry felt dread build up in his chest. Alone on the island he’d been able to talk to her freely, yell at her, touch her, kiss her without worrying about who saw or heard. Once back within the Keep, where the walls had ears and the gossip flowed as fast as the wine, they would go back to pretending they barely knew each other and it felt like a punch in the gut. It was a long walk from the swimming beach to the City, but not nearly long enough to satisfy him. Gendry couldn’t stop touching her as they went, interlacing her fingers with his and rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand, not knowing when, if he would get the chance to touch her again. 

Once the city walls were close, Arya left him with only a quick, chaste kiss and kept walking toward the Mud Gate. She could sneak into the Keep before the castle rose and pretend she’d never been gone. Gendry planned to enter the city through the Iron Gate and headed straight for the forge on the Street of Steel. He’d spend the day there and, if anyone minded to ask, claim he’d been there since yesterday and slept in the storeroom due to the storm. He didn’t know how he felt about the hiding, the slinking about and hoping no one saw. He’d waited so long to have her back in his life and now he really had her. He wanted to keep her in his arms forever and yell from the rooftops that he was hers, fight any man that looked at her and fight with her whenever possible. This new kind of relationship was thrilling, but it terrified him, too. It’s newness made it fragile and he’d broken it before by moving too quickly, demanding too much. He feared that any minute they would be caught or he would ask for more than she was willing to give and the dream he was living now would crash down around him. Walking silently, quickly through the growing crowd toward the forge, Gendry made a silent oath to let Arya lead the way. She would decide when they told people about them, she would decide if they wed. Whatever she wanted them to be,he would be okay as long as he stayed in her life. He was her choice and he would be patient and let her choose him over and over again for the rest of his life. He would trust her.

\----

‘ _ Sneaking through this castle is far too easy. _ ’ Arya thought. So many walls easily scaled, so many distracted guards, so many secret tunnels. It would have been so easy to slip in and kill Cersei Lannister that she lamented the missed opportunity as she climbed the steps of the tower to her room. The guard patrols were easy enough to avoid and before the highborns rose all the servants were occupied in the laundry or the kitchens, preparing for the day ahead. It was no challenge to slip into the tower and into her room unnoticed. 

Arya desperately wanted to bathe, the ocean salt dried on her skin made her feel disgusting. Arya flagged down a handmaid passing by and asked her if she could have water sent up, no need to warm it. She’d taken to cold baths during the long summer to relieve her of the constant heat. Arya knew not to wish for winter lest it come early and the people starve, but she had grown weary of the blistering summer. She hadn’t seen snow since she left King’s Landing years ago, and she missed the cold. It was a part of her, even more deeply ingrained than her marques. “ _The_ _Starks are made for cold_ ” her mother would say. Arya could not stand to wear full shirts or sleeves without overheating, but in the North the weather was always cool enough for her to wear thick leather and wool, even in the summer. The sun would warm you, sure, but a chilled breeze was never far behind to remind you that winter was coming. 

As the handmaid left with the last bucket in hand, Arya slipped into the full tub and sighed, the water was still cold from the well, just cold enough to burn before her skin adjusted. She grabbed a bar of soap and began to scrub herself clean, the lather turning the bathwater milky and sweet smelling. She dipped her head under the water, drenching her hair and scrubbing out the salt that matted it. Once satisfied that she was clean, Arya leaned her head back, closing her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the cool water. She was exhausted, both due to the lack of sleep and the sheer amount of work her body had done the day prior. An ache was settling into her arms and her thighs, but Arya knew the swim was not the only activity that had left her sore. 

The sensation of the cool water on her skin, the gentle breeze through her window, the soft clean scent of soap around her were near enough to put her to sleep. Arya rose, not wanting to risk drowning by napping in the tub. That would be far too stupid a way to die. She dripped water on the stone floor as she walked across the room for her robe, catching a glance at herself in the mirror and noting two small love bites on her breasts. She ran her hands over them, remembering vividly the rough calluses on Gendry’s hands, the firmness of his grasp on her. Turning away from the mirror and looking over her shoulder, she saw red scrapes down her back, scabbed already but clearly fresh. She’d felt them sting with the sea salt on their return swim to the mainland, but she underestimated how visible they would be. Whether they were from the ground or the cave wall she wasn’t sure, but she could think of no reasonable explanation for them to tell someone inquiring. All she could think of was the feeling of being pressed between cold rocks and burning flesh and how the memory made desire rise up within her. 

What happened with Gendry, she hadn’t intended it. She hadn’t meant to kiss him, hadn’t known if he’d even kiss her in return. Whatever unspoken thing had changed between them last night could not be put back, and she could not dismiss it like she had done before. This new thing was not an experiment at the end of the world or a clumsy drunken misunderstanding, it was real. It was a choice. He had chosen her and she chose him. Once, a long time ago, she had offered him her love and he had refused it, not seeing her as more than a child. When they met again Arya had been the one to refuse, not ready to bind herself to another. Arya knew that this time they were both ready. This time was different.

Arya’s return to Westeros had been so filled with emotion, to see her family and friends again had filled her with such joy, and she found quite a bit of fun in King’s Landing, which surprised her, given how much she hated it as a child. She enjoyed sparring with the Kingsguard and Jon, she enjoyed the drinking games with Lord Tyrion, she even found herself happy to sit with Sansa in her chambers and talk with her, drinking tea and eating lemoncakes. Most of all, she enjoyed the times she and Gendry were alone. He was just the same as he had been as a boy, loyal, stubborn, funny. He made her laugh, he infuriated her, he made her feel safe just as he had when they were children. She had felt an empty space in her heart when they separated all those years ago, both thinking the other was dead. She’d mourned him and remembered him fondly, but she had buried those emotions the same way she had her father’s death and Robb’s. She felt the pain much worse when she left after the war because she knew he was alive and that she had hurt him. She could think about him, miss him, and wonder if he missed her too. She had her answer, now. 

Arya jumped at a gentle knock at the door and wrapped her robe tightly around her before answering it, making sure to cover the little bruises blossoming on her chest. 

“Hey” Sansa said, pushing herself into the room. “Where were you last night? We didn’t see you at dinner.”

“I had to go down to the ship to see to some of the crew changes, I just stayed in my cabin.” she lied, “I would’ve sent word, but I couldn’t exactly send my crew out in a storm I wouldn’t brave myself.”

“Oh well. You got to miss Jon fretting about it.”

“He never used to be such a worrier. He’s starting to remind me of Mother and I’m sure he would be horrified at the comparison.” Arya said as she sat down at her mirror and began to pull a brush through her wet hair. Sansa laughed and took the brush from her, gently combing through Arya’s long hair.

“You’ve got such pretty hair.” she mused. “How is it so soft? Even with the constant sea spray? I hear it’s so drying.” Arya handed her sister a small bottle of oil from a drawer in the vanity.

“Just rub a few drops of this into the hair while it’s wet, it’ll stay soft.” she explained. “I’ll get you a few bottles from the ship, we have crates of the stuff.” Sansa poured a small amount of the strongly aromatic oil into her hands, working it through Arya’s hair and massaging it into her scalp. Arya leaned her head into her sister’s hands and sighed. 

“Smells nice” Sansa murmured. 

“Yeah…” Arya replied. “Comes from this weird fruit that tastes like soap. They use the oil for everything.”

Sansa began to braid then, tightly pulling Arya’s hair into a practical northern style, pinning the tail of the braid into a coil at the base of Arya’s neck. 

“Now get dressed and hurry down to breakfast.” Sansa ordered, jabbing her sister with a hairpin. Arya rubbed her arm and shot Sansa an offended look as she left, but she ignored it.

“Oh shit.” Arya said as the door closed behind Sansa. She wasn’t entirely sure if she owned any clothes that would cover both the love bites on her collarbone and the scrapes on her back. 

“Shit shit shit!” she whined as she dumped her chest of clothes out on the bed. She favored open backs ever since she’d gotten her direwolf marque, and now it seemed everything she owned was cropped or open. She tossed each backless shirt behind her towards the chest, very few actually making it close. From the bottom of the pile, she pulled out a dress she had forgotten she owned, not having worn it since her first weeks in Vilinos. It was somewhat modest by Vilinosi standards, but would still have scandalized her mother, which was why she bought it in the first place. The soft, thin dress was bleached white with bold red embroidery along the hem. It hit her mid thigh, the sides cut completely open up to the waist for ease of movement. It was sleeveless with a high square collar and a deep neckline narrow enough to conceal the purple splotches on her skin. She wore fitted trousers underneath and slipped black slippers on her feet before securing her swordbelt and quickly leaving the room in search of her siblings. 

Arriving in the Solar, the only people at the table were Jon and Sansa. Arya slipped into a chair next to Jon and ruffled his hair up as she sat. Jon reached towards her, only to be stopped by a whack to the back of the head from Sansa.

“Don’t you dare muss her hair, Jon.” Sansa warned sternly. “I spent a great deal of time on it and I will stab you with my fork if you destroy my work.” He shot her a brooding look and tried to fix his own hair with the reflection on a plate while Arya turned her attention to the fruit on the table. 

“You’re safe this time,” Jon told Arya, carefully adjusting his curls to the perfect amount of rugged disheveledness. She only laughed and popped a grape into her mouth before throwing another at his face. “You’re so annoying!” he said as he swatted it away.

“How fucking old are you two?” Sansa asked. “I’ve seen enough of you. Get away from me. Don’t you two have work to do? Jobs?” 

“I just got here! After you ordered me here!” Arya argued. “Fine. Be like that.” she said, throwing fistfulls of grapes at Sansa. “Jon, you look finished. Come along, then. There's much to be done.” Arya grabbed Jon by the collar of his tunic and dragged him away from his breakfast despite his protesting. 

\---

“You truly can’t extend your stay any longer?” Jon asked, sprawled sideways across an armchair in the Captain’s Stateroom. “You haven’t even been back a month.” Arya rolled her eyes.

“The quicker I take Keera back and get the trade route established, the sooner I can get back and stay.”

“Okay. Point. But you’re sailing off again in ten days! It doesn’t seem like enough time! Can you even get your supplies ready? You don’t want to rush.”

“Ten days is more than enough. I could do six. If you’re so worried, why don’t you come along? I’m sure there’s an empty bunk somewhere in the crew deck.” 

“Oh no, no!” Jon laughed, “I’ve seen the torture you’ve been putting my poor friend Gendry through and it reminds me far too much of the way we treated new recruits in the Night’s Watch. I’m much too old for that nonsense now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, and you know what else?” Arya rolled her eyes.

“What, Jon?”

“You’re being too harsh on Gendry. I know you hardly know him, but I do. He’s not just another pompous Lord with an overblown sense of self importance.” Arya covered her mouth with her hand, feigning deep interest and hiding her smirk.

“That so?” she mumbled into her hand.

“Yeah! He may not be a sailor, but he’s a fighter and smarter than anyone gives him credit for. I know it amuses you to boss people around and embarrass highborns, but Gendry is not the one. He’s not entitled or lazy like you think, he earned his title. I should know, I asked Daenerys to give it to him! He volunteered to go with me beyond the Wall and saved all our lives. He’s strong and he’s brave and any mission is better off for having him. I’m not saying you have to be his best friend or anything, I’m just saying you should be a little nicer to him. Give him a chance” 

“I can try,” she said slowly, trying not to let her amusement through, “to be somewhat nicer to Gendry Baratheon.”

“Thank you.” 

“Now help me sort through these manifests, would you? I need to compare each item on the inventory report to the journey requirements so I can write a purchase order for the difference.” Jon groaned.

“Boring work, being a Captain. Where’s your first mate Davos to do this for you?” 

“Davos is making plans for the Vilinosi fleet and creating systems for training shipbuilders and sailors. You are free to assist him if it pleases you.” 

“Or I could just go find Sam and stay out of your way?”

“That suits me perfectly.” Arya said, furrowing her brow at her scrolls. “You’re terrible with sums anyway, I’d just have to redo it all.”

“Well that’s just rude,” Jon pouted, closing the cabin door behind him, glad he was no longer a king, no longer in charge of anything at all and didn’t have to do any of the shit work. 

With departure so soon, the crew were all either busy with the preparations or making the most of their time left in a tavern or a brothel in the city. The deck was entirely empty, except for Gendry who was halfheartedly swinging a staff at the practice dummies. “What does the little urchin have in store for your training today?” Jon asked him.

“I believe Her Grace needs crates arranged in the cargo hold, and I need more work with the staff.” Gendry replied.

“You seem to have come a long way. You’re less bruised these days.”

“For now, at least.” Gendry laughed, and Jon waved him off.

“You’ll be fine, but I’m off before she changes her mind and puts me to work, too.” 

\---

The moment she heard Jon leaving the ship, Arya shoved her scrolls to the side and crossed the main deck, grasping Gendry’s arm tightly and dragging him down the stairs, gesturing for him to be quiet. They descended into the abandoned crew deck, then down again into the lower hold. She pulled him along, weaving through crates. She shoved one crate aside to clear a door at the stern and yanked Gendry inside the small empty room before barring the door behind them.

“What is this room?” he asked, completely bewildered.

“It was supposed to be extra crew quarters or storage, but we’ve never used it and no one comes back here.” she said, stepping forward. “No one even knows it’s here.” Arya wrapped her arms around Gendry’s neck, reaching up to kiss him, his hands falling to her waist as they kissed, pressed together in the tiny room. She ran her hands across his chest, the firm muscles tense under her fingers, heat rising in her core. She tugged his shirt free from his waistband and they separated just long enough for him to pull the shirt off over his head. Arya traced the teeth marks she’d left on his chest, running her fingers lightly over the bite. 

“Sorry about this one,” she whispered against his neck. 

“I don’t care. Do it again” he said breathlessly, and tried to catch her mouth with his, but she evaded him and turned her attention to his torso. She kissed the bruised flesh gently, her breath making goosebumps rise on Gendry’s arms and neck. He groaned softly and gripped her hips as she continued to kiss and paw at him, grabbing the strings of his breeches and untying them deftly, his pants and smallclothes falling to the floor together. He was already stone hard, and she wrapped her fingers around his length before sinking to her knees.

“Arya I- AH!” she interrupted him by grasping him tightly and running her tongue across his tip. She looked up and caught his eyes, bringing him all into her mouth and sucking her cheeks in, swirling her tongue around him and tasting all of him.

“What was that you were saying?” She asked coyly.

“Nothin’.” he rasped. His mouth hung open slightly, his chest heaving and breath coming out in ragged bursts. She took him deep into her mouth, opening her throat to allow as much of him in as she could. She felt his pulse pounding against her tongue and felt his hips twitching forward desperately to meet her. 

Arya didn’t break eye contact as she worked her hands and mouth along his length, his hands working in her hair and urging her on. She enjoyed the look of shock and awe in his face, the lust in his deep blue eyes drove her mad. She began sucking harder and working her hands in quick circles around his base. He pressed his eyes shut and leaned his head back. His eyebrows were twisted together, his cheeks flushed pink. Arya moaned at the sight of him, the vibrations making him swear and grunt her name as his hips snapped forward, his body convulsing as he came, knees nearly buckling under him. Arya kept him in her mouth, swallowing hard until the aftershocks passed and he grew limp, gasping for air.

“What was that?” he asked her.

“Jon said I should be nicer to you,” she said innocently.

“Oh gods please don’t mention Jon right now.” Gendry begged, pushing himself back into his trousers. “I already feel bad enough for lying to him. And for bedding his sister.”

“Do you want to tell him?”

“Oh absolutely not,” he said, pulling her close. “I want to live.” Arya laughed.

“I don’t think he would kill you. He really seems to love you. He went on and on telling me what a good and honorable man you were and it just made me want to fuck you.” Gendry groaned and kissed her.

“I think us being friends will make it so much worse. He’ll beat me black and blue and I’ll have to let him.”

“One day, when we will tell him, I’ll protect you. I just don’t want to deal with the family or the dramatics or any of that yet. Right now we have all the fun parts without all the bad. Once we tell people we will have to face all of that, but I just want to hang on to this freedom a little while longer.” she pleaded. “No protective brothers to contend with, no explanations, no gossip and sideways glances. Just you and me, doing as we please.”

“Just you and me,” Gendry agreed. “Besides, I wonder how many hiding places we can find before we’re caught. I think I’d enjoy sneaking off to kiss you in dark hallways and empty storerooms.”

“In the forge, definitely.”

“Gods yes. In the Godswood?” he suggested

“Maybe in the tunnels beneath the keep.”

“In my chambers if we’re really clever.”

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head, “No featherbed for me.”

\---

Arya spent much of the next week preparing for their departure. In the best case, if they didn’t get blown off course, they’d be at sea for three months before seeing land again. Any failure in preparation could see them without food, without water, the crew dead and the future of Westeros with them. Three days before, she finally felt confident in her preparations. Davos had signed off on everything, checking the numbers over again. Her rooms had been packed, all her things moved down to her quarters on the Nymeria. Gendry had been surprised to learn that he would be staying in the passenger quarters on the crew deck, just across from Davos’s rooms and next to Keera’s. Gendry had really thought she’d follow through on her threat to make him sleep in a hammock for the journey, but Arya had decided to give him the privacy of his own quarters, knowing that the first weeks at sea were likely to be humiliating for him.

A meeting was held to go over the trade terms Westeros was willing to put forth and what the Crowns expected in return. Arya, Davos, and Gendry all attended as they would have power of negotiations once in Vilinos. Sansa and Bran attended, along with members of their councils, to assert the interests of the kingdoms. It was a dreadfully boring meeting, and Gendry was struggling to stay awake. At one point, there was an hours-long debate over the number of crates of wine a ship was worth, how many bottles of oil, how many bags of spices? How much wheat for every trained sailor? In the end, none of it would matter anyway. The envoy would agree to any fair enough sounding trade in order to establish a steady stream of imports and foster a good relationship with the Crown of Vilinos. 

Once the meeting finally dragged to an end the advisors left to do whatever it was that they did, the Starks and Gendry stayed, joined by Jon, taking their dinner in the chamber and discussing their personal goals for the expedition.

“I would love more detail on the Senate,” Sansa said. “I think a council in that model would be a good thing to implement in the North.” everyone nodded in agreement. “Food imports would be crucial, as well. Vilinos barely has a winter at all, so we could supplement our food stores. The farmers have not had the time to rebuild and resow enough to feed us all. Winter is coming and we will not be ready this time.” 

Arya noted that the servant filling her sister’s cup had a familiar air about him, but could not recall where she had seen him previously. He had sandy brown hair and his face was unremarkable, but she knew him. 

“When we’re all freezing our asses off, Vilinos will still be warm and still be growing food faster than the Reach. The transport will be an issue. It will take a lot of work to ensure that the food doesn't spoil on the trip.” she said, still tracking the servant through the room discreetly.

“An issue that will be solved soon enough,” Bran said. “I cannot see into Vilinos. Perhaps If there was a Weirwood tree planted there I could, but I still want to learn their history and what their healers and scholars know. There is so much we can learn from each other.” Arya nodded along to her brother’s words, carefully watching the servant. She never forgot a face, and not being able to place him was bugging her. It was something in the mannerisms. 

“I want to learn everything I can.” Gendry said. “I am barely able to lead as it is, it’s not enough and I need to bring back something to better the Stormlands.”

“That’s not so, Gendry.” Sansa said, smiling at him. “I hear the Stormlands are thriving under your leadership. Even in the North people are saying you have a good head for leadership and that you take the interests of your people very seriously. You should be very proud of the work you have done.”

“Thank you Your Grace, but there’s probably a great deal I don’t even know is an option or can’t think of or don’t know is needed. Going there and seeing it all myself, I hope to make the Stormlands as comfortable and free as Vilinos. There’ll be a senate, of course, and I want the smallfolk to be represented as much as possible. I wonder what changes they will ask for. Oh, thank you.” he told the servant as he rounded the table to refill his wine. 

There, in the smile and the tilt of the head, Arya knew who the servant was. She drew Catspaw and had it to his throat in an instant.

“Take it off.” Arya ordered.

“Arya what are you doing?” Sansa yelled, jumping to her feet.

“I said take it OFF.” Arya hissed, ignoring her. The servant laughed, setting down the wine pitcher. Slowly, so slowly he reached up towards his face, pulling down from the edge and revealing another face underneath, his hair changing to red and white as the mask was removed. He tossed it carelessly onto the table, the now lifeless flesh lay in a limp pile like a discarded rag.

“What the fuck?” Jon yelped, drawing his sword.

“Knew it was you.” Arya said calmly. 

“Hello, Arya Stark and I’m going home. How did Arya Stark and I’m going home know a man’s face?” he asked, calm as though he didn’t have a blade pressed against his neck. 

“Who else could it be? The whole room reeks of your bullshit, Jaqen.”

“This is not polite, Arya Stark and I’m going home. Not a way to greet a friend.”

“Stop saying that!” Arya yelled. “Why are you calling me that?”

“This is a girl’s name, yes? A girl said as much the last time a man saw-”

“-You mean after I killed your little favorite? After you ordered me dead?” she interrupted

“A man did not give the order. And the Waif was never a man’s favorite student.”

“Are you here to kill me, then? Or one of them?” she asked, tilting her head towards the group, Gendry and Jon standing in front of Sansa and Bran, swords drawn and watching the scene in front of them, dumbfounded. 

“If the Many-Faced God wanted a girl’s death, a girl would be dead.” he stated simply.

“Then why are you here?” Arya hissed, pressing the blade harder against his throat. 

“A man brings a warning. A girl should be grateful.” He reached slowly into his pocket, pulling out a small raven scroll and holding it out to Arya. She reached for it and he yanked it away, too high for her to reach. “This is a very expensive warning, a girl must do her part.”

“Leave us.” she told the others, sheathing her blade.

“Not a fucking chance!” Jon argued. Jaqen turned to look at them all, as if he hadn’t noticed them until then.

“Hello again, boy.” he said to Gendry, amused. 

“I’ve never met you!” Jon yelled, assuming the greeting was for him. Jaqen did not correct him and Gendry stayed quiet, eyeing Jaqen with unease. Jaqen sat at the table, grabbing the cup of wine that had been Gendry’s and taking a sip.

“There is no poison, girl. Sit, and a man will explain.” Arya sat across from him stiffly, keeping Catspaw in her hand. Sansa took a seat next to Arya, pushing past Jon who was frantically trying to keep her behind him. 

“We should listen to what Arya’s…. associate has to say.” She said calmly.

“Former associate.” Arya corrected. The rest of the party nervously retook their seats, none of them wanting to sit near the assassin. “What the hell is going on?” Arya asked firmly.

“A fortnight ago, The House of Black and White received a request. The writer offered a great deal of gold for the name, and the writer gave odd requests.”

“Which name?”

“Arya Stark.” Arya nodded, not entirely surprised. 

“And you didn’t take the contract. Why?” 

“A faceless man cannot take a life that is known to them. Every faceless man knows Arya Stark. A faceless man takes a name only for the Many-Faced God, and the Many-Faced God does not want Arya Stark to die today.” Arya rolled her eyes and Jaqen sighed. “The money was not enough. Royals, great warriors, these cost extra. Arya Stark is a Princess twice and a girl can best faceless men, it is known. Arya Stark took the Waif’s life. Arya Stark took the Night King's life. No amount of gold is worth the trouble a girl will cause.” Arya smirked, barely resisting the urge to feel proud of herself.

“Who is the writer?” she asked.

“The letter is unsigned, but perhaps the writer makes a mistake in the request and makes the name known.”

“Out with it. What was the request?” Arya said impatiently, growing annoyed at Jaqen’s games. 

“A man was asked to make it look like another did the killing. The Queenslayer Jon Snow was to kill Arya Stark at the request of the Queen Sansa.”

“That’s insane!” Sansa exclaimed. “No one would believe that!”

“A man was asked to leave letters, clothes, evidence that the Queenslayer and the Northern Queen lay together as siblings like the Lannisters and the Targaryens did and plotted the demise of the Queen Daenerys, then killed Arya Stark together when a girl returns to threaten their power.”

“That’s disgusting!” Jon spat, his face contorted in rage. 

“They are trying to make me into Cercei.” Sansa muttered, her mind working quickly. “They said ‘Queenslayer?’ That was their word?” she asked Jaqen. He nodded, reaching to hand her the scroll.

“Put it on the table.” Arya said sharply, her grip on Catspaw tightening until her knuckles turned white. “Do not touch her.” Jaqen nodded slightly as he placed the scroll on the center of the table. Sansa retrieved it and read it quickly.

“What are you thinking?” Arya questioned.

“It had to have been someone loyal to Daenerys.” she postured. “Only one of her allies would call Jon ‘Queenslayer’.”

“This is my fault.” Jon muttered. 

“No, it’s not.” Sansa protested. “There is only one person at fault and we will track them down before they try again and see them tried for their treason.” Sansa turned to Jaqen. “Thank you, Ser, for bringing this information to us. My family owes you a debt.”

“There is no debt. A man warns an old friend, this is all.”

“Bran, Sansa, pay him the cost of the contract.” Arya ordered. “We are not friends. We do not do favors for each other.” Jaqen laughed.

“A girl does not always get to choose her friends.” he stood, slipping the dead face into his pocket. “And a girl never knows when she will need more favors. A man will be seeing you soon, Arya Stark.” He tapped his temple with two fingers and bowed his head slightly. “Valar Morghulis.” 

“Valar Dohaeris.” she replied, standing to return the salute before leaning across the table to snatch the coin he had left there, stuffing it into her pocket. Jaqen slipped out the door, and Arya knew she would not see him again unless he wanted her to but had no doubt he would be there. Watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took me so long!! I always want 2 chapters in editing before I put one up, and chapter 11 ended up like 8000 words even after I split it in two (notice there are 20 chapters, now). The plot is really picking up, now. Shit is gonna go down. Let me know what your theories are!!!


	10. West of Westeros

“I feel like we’ve been here before,” Jon said, standing with his sisters on the docks. The preparations had all gone to plan, the weather was clear, and the Nymeria was setting sail as soon as her Captain gave the order. 

“Not even very long ago.” Sansa agreed. “Are you sure we shouldn’t delay the trip? Trade can wait. Someone is trying to have you killed and we don’t even know who they are! Or what their motives are.”

“They cannot kill me if I’m not in Westeros.” Arya pointed out. “All the more reason I should go.”

“We’ll root the traitors out.” Jon promised. “Their plan failed but they will try again. When they do, we’ll be ready, and you’ll be safe.”

“You worry too much, brother.” Arya said. “They aren’t even after me, killing me is just a means to hurt you and Sansa and Bran. You should be much more concerned for your own safety than mine.

“I just…. really don’t want you to die.”

Jon pulled Arya into a hug, a little too tight for a little too long, before stepping back and cupping her face with both hands. He squeezed her cheeks between his palms, rubbing her face before she jerked out of his grasp.

“Jon! I’m not a child!” she sputtered.

“Yeah, you are. You’re still a baby to me.” he said softly. “Gods, I remember when you were born. Both of you.” 

“Really?” Sansa asked.

“Yeah. I don’t remember yours as much, I was a bit young, but I remember that they rang the bells till sundown and all the folks from Winter Town laid winter roses under your mother’s window for her to see. They were all so worried about you catching a fever they didn’t let anybody see you for months! On your Blessing Day, they held a feast and so many of the Lords of the realm came to see you but your mother wouldn’t let them. Nobody except her and the wetnurses.” Sansa smiled as Jon pulled her and Arya into an embrace, one sister under each arm. 

“Arya, though, I remember much better. Third child, second daughter, there were no bells for you, not that you needed them. You came into the world screaming so loudly that all of Winterfell knew the moment you arrived. I remember that Catelyn handed you off to the wetnurse and father snuck me in to see you, just an hour old. Besides your mother, father, the wetnurse, and the maester that delivered you, I was the first person to ever hold you. You were the smallest thing ever. I was absolutely terrified I’d drop you, but father told me it would be okay.” Jon held Arya close. “I knew that you were going to be just like me the very first time I held you. I knew that you would be my best friend, my favorite person in the entire world, and Father told me it was my job to keep you safe. I’ve done a shit job at that.”

“You did the best you could. The best anybody could” Arya mumbled into his shirt. 

“Be safe, baby sister.” Jon implored. “And come back soon.” Arya pulled away and wiped a tear from Jon’s face. 

“Don’t cry for me, Jon. This barely even counts as a goodbye.” she assured him. “I’ve made this journey before, I’m sailing away from enemies and towards my allies. I couldn’t be safer. Hey! When I get back you’ll finally take me beyond the wall like we talked about when we were kids, right?” Jon laughed.

“Oh, of course. You’ll fit right in behind the wall, you’re already a wildling.” Jon told Arya as he ruffled her hair, earning a punch to the shoulder. “And, hey! Maybe on the way you can tell me why freaky faced assassins do you favors and who the hell that guy was.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” Arya said flatly. “If you want the truth, you can ask Bran, but you shouldn't.”

“Take this,” Sansa said, cutting off Jon’s reply and shoving a small wrapped package at Arya. “I had it cut from the one at home.” Arya opened it, seeing white bark and dirt. A weirwood cutting. “If you water it enough, it should grow, still.” 

“I will. I will plant it in the palace gardens” Arya promised.

Arya hugged both of her siblings tightly before hurrying away toward the docks, not wanting to prolong the conversation any more. She hated goodbyes.

“Hug Bran for me one last time, yeah? I’ll see you soon. Be safe. And watch out for each other!” she called over her shoulder. She climbed the ladder to the main deck and joined Davos at the helm. 

“Is everyone on board?” she asked.

“Aye, Captain. We are now.” He replied. Arya nodded.

“Lift the anchor and set loose the sails.” She ordered. As the ship burst into action, Arya thought back to the eve of their departure from Winterfell. She’d been packing, trying to train Nymeria to fetch, and she was so sure that nothing would ever be the same again. Her father had come to her rooms and told her not to be afraid of the road ahead. She remembered his voice, even as other memories faded from her mind, Ned Stark’s words and his voice remained clear to her. 

‘ _ The man who leaves on a journey is not the same man that arrives, nor he the same man who returns. Aren’t you excited to see what this journey makes of us?’  _

\---

The men Davos had hired were satisfactory. Good sailors, all of them, if a bit crass. None of them had any qualms about taking orders from a woman, Davos had made sure of that, but nine weeks of listening to the same bawdy stories and their endless teasing of Gendry’s seasickness had gotten on his nerves. He had taken to hiding in the stateroom if it was his watch and nothing was pressing rather than walk among the men and risk losing his temper with them. He sat at the table in the stateroom, double checking their course on the map for the third time that night. The waters were rough and even the experienced seaman’s stomach lurched a bit when the ship tilted to and fro so sharply. It was late at night and still his watch for several more hours, so Davos was surprised to see Arya enter the stateroom.

“Captain. Good evening.” he greeted, standing. Arya waved him off and sat across from him. Davos had been impressed with Arya’s leadership on the journey thus far. He’d always considered her very young, and in truth he’d assumed far too much about her before he knew her properly. He saw so much of Jon Snow in her look and her behavior that he thought they were the same in all respects. He’d been wrong in that. Jon was always uncomfortable in leadership, more suited to leading an army in a battle than running a keep or a kingdom. He’d done it and done the work well, but he did not want it and had eagerly passed the leadership of the North to Sansa when given the chance. Jon Snow would demand to lead in battle but the time between battles infuriated him, causing his judgement to falter. Jon Snow had no patience for maintaining rapport with other lords or counting grain. Davos had expected to find Arya similarly at the helm giving orders or in her chambers, leaving him to pick up the other duties. But Arya was not Jon Snow. Arya, he found, took to leadership naturally and excelled in the day-to-day aspects of it, leaving very little for him to do besides work on the ship designs for the Vilinosi fleet. He had expected Jon’s impulsiveness, his brashness, but found instead a calm disposition and stern authority. It was not unusual that Davos would find her patching sails or reeling in the fishing alongside her men, always busy. Her actions had earned their respect and they listened to her, never questioning, and she never had to threaten or force her will upon anyone.

“Couldn’t sleep.” she said, finally

“Is it the movement of the ship or is something troubling you?” he asked, forsaking her title. They’d grown less formal over the long journey, and Arya was grateful for it.

“Ah, you know… just…” 

“Stir crazy?” he finished for her, making her laugh.

“Is it that obvious? There’s just nothing to do but wait till we make shore. Even sleeping is boring.” she shared.

“Aye,” Davos chuckled, “Long journeys do that to you. Luckily for us, we made good time in the first weeks. I have been double checking our position, I think we are further along than we thought. We may even reach land within the next fortnight.”

“Fantastic news.” 

“What’ll be our first stop once we reach shore?” Davos asked.

“We’ll make port in Juqah. Lovely little seaside town. We’ll rest for a few days there, I think. I have a friend that owns an inn, she’d put us up. The Capitol is a week North, North-East if we cut through the woods instead of taking the road. There you all will do your business with the crown.”

“Not you?” Davos questioned.

“I have someone I need to see outside the city.” Davos looked slightly perturbed at that, but covered it well. Arya sensed it despite his politeness, and passed Davos a cup of wine before calling him on it. “What is the matter?”

“It’s nothing, your Grace,-”

“Oh it definitely is something, you get more formal when you're uncomfortable. Please, Davos, be honest with me. Do you think I need to stay and help with the trade deals? I am no expert, I do not know what help I could be.”

“No, it’s not that. I just… I worry about Gendry.” Arya was confused. 

“What about Gendry?”

“Pardon me, your Grace, but it’s a small ship and his chambers are just next to mine. I hear him leave in the middle of the night, at first I thought he wanted to walk off the seasickness, but he never does it when I’m on watch, only on your nights. With that and the way he acted with you back in King’s Landing I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something going on that you two aren’t telling anyone.” Arya sat silent for a moment, sipping her own wine. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve come to think of Gendry as my own son and his happiness concerns me.”

“It concerns me, too.” she said truthfully.

“I’m happy to see him letting someone in, but I worry about him getting hurt.” Davos admitted. “Not that you would. Deliberately.” he added.

“Ah… And you thought... Well, the person I’m seeing will cause no pain to Gendry, you can trust me on that. He’s married, an elderly sheepherder. He took me in when I first came to Vilinos and was like a father to me. Gendry has no competition there.”

“Oh. that’s… good.” they sat in awkward silence for a minute before Davos suddenly asked “So what is the nature of your relationship with my boy, if I’m not overstepping?”

“I really don’t know. It’s complicated.” she said truthfully.

“That much is obvious. Let’s start at the beginning. When did it start? Was it upon your return or before, back in Winterfell?”

“Eleven years ago, actually. Twelve, perhaps.” Davos nearly spit his wine, but Arya continued. “We were smuggled out of the city together after my father was murdered and Cersei ordered all of Robert’s bastards killed. We travelled together for years.”

“Why didn’t he ever tell me that?” Davos wondered. “I knew he’d been on the run from Gold Cloaks, but he left you out of his story. Why?”

“Dunno. I spent years thinking he was dead, he thought I’d died at the Red Wedding. I think we never told anyone that we had been friends because it was pointless to dredge up old pain. Until it wasn't. We found each other again, and there was so much happening we just never got the chance to tell anyone we knew each other. The more time passed the weirder it would be, so we never told anyone. Then we separated again.”

“Why did you separate the first time?”

“The Brotherhood sold him to a red witch. I thought she’d killed him.”

“Nearly did.” Davos said quietly. “She took him to Dragonstone.” 

“To Stannis.” Arya hissed into her wine, causing Davos to flinch slightly.

“Aye, to Stannis. I didn’t know what he was planning, at first, and when I found out I smuggled Gendry out and put him on a boat.”

“So he must’ve met you just days after he left me.”

“Funny little world it is.” Davos chuckled. “Then, when I started serving your brother, he was in need of good men, and I knew just where to find one. I went and found Gendry, brought him to Jon.”

“Hmmm. That explains why they’re so chummy. I wondered how they’d met. Funny little world indeed.” Arya paused for a moment, considering her wine. “You’ve served a lot of kings, haven’t you, Davos? Who do you reckon was the best?”

“Ahh, That’s a hard question. What makes a good king? They all had their faults. Kings are only men, I suppose. Robert was full of wrath, a drunk and a selfish man. Stannis was… disappointing.” Arya raised her eyebrow at that. “He started out so fair, firm and stalwart. He did his duty to Robert when asked and never faltered. I admired that in him. But then that witch came along and poisoned his mind, made him power hungry. He didn’t care about the cost anymore, only that he got what he thought he deserved. When he…” Davos took a shaky breath. “he crossed a line he couldn’t come back from, and I could serve him no more.” Arya knew the evil of the red witch. She also knew of Davos’s pain, both his trueborn son who had died fighting for a worthless would-be king and murder of the daughter he chose and cherished, so she changed the subject to spare him the memories.

“What of Jon?” Arya asked. 

“Jon. He was the King we needed in wartime. He brought people together, he inspired them, he turned them toward a single enemy and he fought hard alongside them. He was a good leader and I was proud to serve him, but he would’ve made a terrible peacetime King.” Arya laughed.

“I suppose you’re right. No patience, that one. All battle, no diplomacy. And not too observant.”

“It’s not that he’s thick,” Davos laughed. “He really isn’t, it’s just he gets so focused on things. Jon can only see what Jon is doing. It doesn’t occur to him that other people are also doing things, having thoughts that are different from his.”

“Can you imagine him as King? His Master of Whispers would spend their entire day explaining to him what everyone else already knows.”

“I’ve seen it. It got him killed once. Any other man would have learned their lesson but he’s...”

“Stupid?” Arya offered.

“I was hoping to find a kinder word.” Davos chuckled.

“So, who was the best if not Jon?”

“Your sister, so far.” Davos admitted. “She has the best of all of them. Her justice is fair but unyielding, she is a fearsome strategist and she inspires troops better than most. She is battle hardened and she always puts the people first. She has a mind for diplomacy and she’s patient, she’s able to see the entirety of an issue and she can consider how her decisions impact others, her competitors, her allies, her enemies, her people. She’s a strong ruler, truly.” Arya smiled. 

_ ‘Maybe her strength is what someone is trying to take from her.’  _ Arya thought.

“When we were children, she was told she would be a Queen one day. They were right, in the end.” She said instead.

“That they were. It’s funny, I think. Men spend so much time planning out the future and the future comes and shits all over their plans, but some things just happen on their own, despite everything. Like they were written by the Gods.”

“Like what?”

“Like Sansa being a Queen. Like a daughter of House Stark and a son of House Baratheon.” Arya rolled her eyes. “No? Tell me truly, what are the chances that you two would find each other even once, but you two have done over and over! First Robert and Lyanna, then Sansa and Joffrey, not that he was a true Baratheon, but my point stands. Your houses meant to join time and time again and everything kept going wrong until you two kids found each other in the woods under false names and loved each other anyway. That’s fate, my dear girl.”

\---

Davos kept promising Gendry that his sea legs would come any day now, but eight weeks into the journey he was still jelly-legged and sick to his stomach. Keera had been sick for the first week but adjusted quickly, having already made the trip once before. With so many duties as Captain, Arya barely had time to feed herself most days, let alone sneak away to sit and comfort a sick Gendry in his quarters. On days the water was calm he would be okay, able to walk around and train on the dummies, even sneaking out of his quarters to join her on the deck when she was on midnight watch and the rest of the crew was asleep. He was not well enough for any amorous activities, but these stolen moments in the moonlight were all they could manage on the crowded ship and he cherished them. They spent long hours sitting side by side, talking and watching the stars from the crow’s nest. 

He had been making progress, vomiting less, but for the past several days they had been moving through rough water. The ship rolled on the waves hard enough to send books flying off of shelves and send water over the sides of the ship, splashing the main deck and forcing Gendry to take shelter down below in his quarters, the lack of fresh air making his nausea even worse. Keera had taken pity on him and acted as nurse, bringing him bread and broth to keep his strength up. Gendry enjoyed her company, she was very kind and her stories of home always excited Gendry, convinced him that his suffering would be worth it in the end. 

“Hello?” she called quietly, entering the room. Gendry tried to sit up in bed but his stomach flipped, threatening to vomit again, and he sank back down.

“Hey, Keera. You know you don’t have to take care of me, I’m fine.” Keera shook her head.

“You are not. Men are not supposed to be green.” She reached out to press a cold cloth to his forehead. “It’s not your fault, Va-Tor is just not made for the sea.” Gendry smiled at the nickname. 

“I still don’t know what that means.” he said. “I don’t know if you’re teasing me or not.” She gasped.

“I do not  _ tease _ ! It means… I do not know the word in the common tongue. An animal.” she stuck her pointer fingers up from her forehead like horns and huffed loudly.

“A bull?” Gendry laughed. “No one has called me that in years, how do you know about that?”

“Arya told me. She did not tell me where the name comes from, though. Why are you called the Bull?” Keera asked. Gendry took a deep breath.

“It started when I was a boy. I never met my father and my mother died when I was young. She didn’t have any family so when she died I was on my own and-”

“You had no carer?” Keera interrupted.

“Oh... no, I didn’t. I spent a little time in the orphanage, but the Septas that ran it beat on us and there was never enough food, so I figured I’d do better on my own. Most of the kids leave or get thrown out eventually, and there’s better odds on the street than-”

“Wait, wait there.” Keera said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “They  _ beat  _ orphan children? They  _ starve _ orphan children? Who is accountable for this? Who is responsible for their safety and education?” 

‘ _ If only you’d come twenty years ago. _ ’ Gendry thought to himself, finding Keera’s outrage charming, if slightly futile. 

“Well… no one. Not when I was a boy, anyway. The crown couldn’t be bothered back then and I was baseborn, a bastard, and an orphan, so I was pretty worthless. They didn’t bother to educate us. We try to do better, now, I swear! I’ve got a good orphanage in the Stormlands with good Septas and toys and the children learn their letters and everything! I go and visit to make sure-”

“Oh I am sure you do your very best, my friend.” she assured him, patting his arm. “It’s just the more I learn about your country the more your people make sense to me. Never have I met such sad people. I thought it was just Arya that was like this, but it is all of you. It is not right, the way you were treated as a boy. I am very sorry for this. Such a sad childhood.”

“Despite everything, I was one on the lucky ones, Keera. War does not spare the children, some died as an accident in raids or fires, some starved, and some were murdered. Too many children to count died in the war. It was not like Vilinos where the children have you to protect them. The ones who lived, we all had to protect ourselves and we had no idea how. No child grew up unaffected, from the most remote village to the richest castle, an entire generation suffered. Perhaps not equally, but everyone remembers. I thank the Gods every day that I had Arya, I’d surely be dead without her. Somehow we made it, and now that we are grown we can make it better. It is my intention that no child born into the Stormlands sees war again in my lifetime.”

“An honorable goal, and you are doing such good work at it. It is easy for me, to speak of peace when I haven’t been touched by war. It is easy to be happy when I have never known true despair. You have suffered so much, yet you remain so hopeful. There is nothing braver than this, my friend! I am so, so  _ proud _ to know you.” Keera said, squeezing Gendry’s hand. His eyes almost got the chance to fill with tears when she continued. “I am sorry to interrupt you with such sadness, continue with your story. Why do they call you bull?”

“Yes, well, people get nicknames a lot. One day, people just start calling you something and it sticks. They called Davos The Onion Knight, they called Daenerys a ridiculous list of things. They call the Starks any variation of ‘wolf’ they can think of. The red wolf, the young wolf, the white wolf, the wandering wolf, you name it. They called one man The Hound because he didn’t question his master, I know a boy named Hot Pie just because he baked pies. Sometimes there isn’t even a reason. I met a man they called the Tickler, but he was definitely not the sort to Tickle so it must’ve been a joke, but I didn’t find it funny at all. Anyway, when I was a street urchin, they started calling me the bull because I was stubborn and big for my age. And because I was angry a lot. I kept getting bigger, and more surly, I guess, so the nickname stuck with me even after I’d left.”

“Interesting. You do not seem angry, now. Mostly sad.”

“I still have a temper, I’m ashamed to admit. It is much better now than it was in my youth.” he promised. Keera nodded.

“You say you knew the Hound. Arya has told me about him as well. I cannot tell if she loves or hates this man.”

“These things are complicated. I do not know, either. I don’t think anyone ever truly knows how Arya Stark feels.” Gendry mused. “So, what else did Arya tell you about me besides my childhood nickname?”

“You do not spend much time around women, do you?” she asked, smirking at him.

“Well... no, not really. I think a normal amount.” Keera laughed.

“You see, when a woman has a friend, a very close friend, there are no secrets between them.” she explained.

“Well, surely some secrets.” Gendry stammered. “Surely she didn’t tell you about-” One look at Keera’s raised eyebrows told Gendry that Arya had, in fact, told her everything. Gendry groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, making Keera laugh again. 

“You Westerosi are so fond of secrets!"

“I can’t believe she told you. I never told anyone.”

“I think she truly believed you and I would never meet, so it was safe to tell me. She may regret it, now.” Keera explained. “When she arrived I do not know if she ever intended to return to Westeros. I do not think she had any plan.”

“I remember my first couple of years after the war. It was a dark place, truly. I had no plan, either. It is hard to think about the future when you didn’t think you would have one. You don’t plan ahead in wartime, it’s just about living another day, and then suddenly it’s all over and you have no mission, no enemy, nothing to do and you are looking at fifty, sixty years or more with no idea how to spend it. Every day when you wake up, you remember all the people you lost and you have to wonder why you get to live and not them. I outlived braver, better men who had more to live for and it destroyed me. For years I barely slept, barely ate. I had nightmares every night and it took a very long time for me to allow myself to be happy again. Longer to remember how.” Gendry confided. 

“Arya was the same. I had never met a person so sad all the time. We sent her to stay with my mother and father. Their home is more peaceful, the city is too busy all the time to be restful. And my father has a calming way with people, so when Arya returned to the Capitol she was somewhat better. Able to trust more, at least. It was a start.”

“Your father is alive?” Gendry asked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I thought your brother was the King.”

“He is. My father passed the crown to him seven years ago when he retired.” Keera said.

“Oh. He retired? I didn’t know King’s did that. All of ours are conquered or die. Daenerys died, Jon got conquered by Daenerys then was banished, all the Lannister child kings died, Robert Baratheon died, Rhaegar Targaryen died, his father the Mad King died, I’m not sure about before that but I’ve never heard of a king passing on the crown when they had any other choice.”

“Westerosi are strange.” Keera said. 

“So I’m learning.”

“What are you two yammering about?” Arya said, slipping into the room. She smiled when she saw Keera and Gendry sitting together. She had been jealous before when girls talked to Gendry, plenty of times. With Bella at the Peach, with Jeyne Heddle, with practically any girl that was older than she was or prettier than she had been, but seeing her lover and her best friend talking together, Arya felt only joy. It felt the same as when she saw Gendry and Jon laughing together. She just felt so relieved that they got along. If Gendry was loved by her friends and her family, he would know that he had a place with her, that he belonged in her life and wouldn’t be burdened by the doubt and insecurity that had plagued him in the past. It made her heart burst.

“Keera was just telling me how she knows all of our secrets.” Gendry said, arms crossed.

“Yeah, should’ve warned you about that. She knows even more than you do.” Arya chuckled, sitting on the bed next to him. He wondered what exactly that meant. “I’ll give you a kiss to make up for it if you swear not to vomit on me.” 

“No promises.” Arya wrinkled her nose at him in disgust but pressed a kiss to his forehead anyway.

“Oh, by the way, Davos knows, too.” she told him.

“What? How?”

“You, Va-Tor.” Keera answered. “You are not quiet. Every night we hear you leave to join Arya on her watch. Stomping, door creaking, tripping up stairs. We can all hear you.” Gendry groaned, and Arya’s heart sang.

\---

The rough waters were a blessing in the end. The strong winds moved the Nymeria quickly through the water, and they made the normally twelve week journey in only ten and a half. When the call for land sighted came down from the crow’s nest, Gendry ran as quickly as he could to the bow, just barely able to see a white speck on the horizon. Over the next day, that speck grew until it towered over them, blocking out the sky with shining white rock. Gendry had to lean his head all the way back until it hurt his neck to see the place where the cliffs met the sky. His eyes ached to look at the cliffs for too long, they shone so bright in the sun. It was so massive, Gendry felt the same awe he felt the first time he’d laid eyes on the Wall. It had seemed back then that the Wall was a barrier between worlds, the only thing between the realm of the living and the looming kingdom of the frozen dead. These cliffs were a boundary, too, and Gendry was much more eager to venture past this one.

“Wait till you see the view from the top.” Arya said, appearing beside him, smiling brightly and grasping his hand between both of hers. “Wait until you see all of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye Westeros!
> 
> Everything is taking just a little longer these days because the next two chapters are fucking HUUGE. Like, the average was 4500 words, maybe, and 11 & 12 are 7500 and 9000. Maybe that'll keep going, who knows? Certainly not me.


	11. Everything She Said it Would Be

As the Nymeria docked in Vilinos, it seemed the entire town emptied onto the beaches to meet them, children running into the water to get as close to the ship as possible. The crowd called out to the ship, celebrating their return. Gendry had picked up only a few words of Vilish during the trip, mostly curses to be honest, but he heard Arya’s name among the cheers. Stepping onto the new world for the first time, Gendry was so thankful for solid ground under his feet, his knees nearly buckled. The sturdiness of it felt strange, now. The white sands were so soft, not at all like the coarse rocky sands near King’s Landing. He looked around, trying to find everything else that was different about this land, and found the sun the same as it had been on the ship, brighter and more intense than he had ever seen before. The smell of the sea had changed, though. There was the smell of grass, spices, things he could not place mixed in with the salty spray. 

They only took necessities off the ship, personal belongings, and Arya told them they would leave the unpacking for tomorrow. Gendry was a little shocked at first, he thought it would not be wise to leave all their valuable trading goods on an unguarded ship. He would have told her this if they were in Westeros, but this was not Westeros. Gendry got the feeling that no one would steal from Arya and that she knew it. It was still odd to see her so trusting when he’d only ever known her to be guarded, but if she felt safe then he would trust that he was, too. He watched her as she made her way up the road with her bag slung over her shoulder, speaking loudly in Vilish with all the children that followed her, wet hand prints all along her pants from the many hugs the children gave her as they walked. He remembered how she protected orphans and children along their travels and saw the way she doted after these children, passing them hard candies from her hip bag and ruffling their heads. Arya always had a sweet tooth, and the fact that even one of the candies had survived the voyage told Gendry exactly what these children meant to her. Saving the candy was such a small sacrifice, but it meant something.

Gendry hung towards the back of the party, watching the rest of the crew as they marched up the sandy beach and up the grassy hills, reaching the village that sat at the top. It was called Juqah, he’d been told. Arya led the crew to a building with lots of tables and chairs outside, covered by an awning to keep the sun off. Without needing to be directed, the crew that were returning all sat down, chatting animatedly while the first timers filed in awkwardly behind them. Gendry sat at a table with some of the crew on the outskirts of the veranda and watched as Keera and Arya disappeared inside the building together, Davos following closely behind. Servers had rushed out, handing out cups and leaving jugs filled with something unfamiliar, pink and sweet smelling. His experience with Ka-Fet made him distrustful of Vilinosi beverages, and he poured no more than a few drops into his cup in order to examine it. He inhaled deeply, not smelling the burn that came with ale or wine or spirits. 

“It’s just flavored water, M’Lord.” a sailor assured him. He was Ironborn from the look of him, but Gendry regretted he didn’t learn too many names trapped below in his quarters churning his guts out. 

“Flavored with what?” he asked, his suspicions not entirely assuaged. The Ironborn laughed, then took a deep drink and swirled it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.

“Alas, nothing too fun. Flowers and melon, I think. Perhaps I taste honey. It won’t get you drunk, if that is what worries you, M’Lord.” 

Gendry nodded his thanks and drank, pleased by the taste. It was sweet, but cooling and refreshing, maybe a little tart. The drink cut the heat, which was still intense despite the shadows that the thick fabric above their heads granted them, a welcome reprieve from the mid afternoon sun beating down on them. In fact, with the sea smelling breeze, the shade, and the chilled drink, Gendry found himself quite comfortable. He looked at everything, trying to notice every detail that was different than Westeros. The table was light wood, not the dark that was so common in pubs and taverns. The grass was greener, he thought. More like the Reach than anywhere else. He noticed the houses and shops around them were well built and clean, the roads were clean, too. 

The cups and jugs were not plain brown clay chipped and misshapen like those in every inn he'd ever been to. The one he held had an intricate pattern painted in vivid lines of blue and orange, little pieces of seaglass pressed into it while the white clay was still wet. The cup was more comfortable in his grasp than the ornate gold and silver chalices the other Westerosi lords sucked their wine out of. He weighed the cup in his hand, finding it thick and carefully formed, the heat from his hand not able to penetrate the clay and warm his drink. The little pieces of seaglass shone just so as he twirled the cup around, swirling his drink inside. He considered the potter who had time to craft such a thing, not for royalty but for his neighbor or even himself. The cup was art, a practical thing made personal, a simple thing made beautiful through the craftsman’s time and care. What a luxury, to put such effort into a cup! He swore the cup itself made the drink sweeter for the love its maker imbued in it. Looking to see if he could pick out the potter, he examined the many Vili who sat among them, chatting away with the sailors like old friends. Gendry supposed that they were. He could not tell a rich man from a craftsman from a poor man in this crowd. Each of the Vili was dressed simply but none dressed in rags. Some wore long, flowy tunics, wrapped trousers, some simply cut gowns, long skirts and some even wore cropped shirts like Arya favored, but all their clothes were unripped and clean. They all looked joyous, laughing and drinking with the sailors, each holding art to their lips as if it were a normal thing. These people were not hungry, they were not poor or desperate. They looked happy. Gendry wondered if all the craftsmen had luck like the potter. Did the cobbler, the carpenter, the blacksmith? Was this a normal thing, for towns to prosper so? He hoped it was, and he hoped he could bring this casual prosperity back to the Stormlands. He thought of the small towns and inns that dotted his lands, and he was ashamed that those smallfolk still bore the look of those torn apart by war, skinny with hollow cheeks and watchful eyes. Mothers hid their children inside or behind their skirts. He watched the chubby toddlers zipping between tables, chasing each other and laughing, and it pained him to realize that he had never before seen children who weren’t fearful around strangers. Could this be his future? It wouldn’t happen right away, he knew there was much too much healing to be done, but what about in twenty years or more? When his temples greyed and his forehead wrinkled, could he sit outside an inn in the Stormlands and watch groups of village children play in the sun, sit unguarded, unarmed, eating merrily and drinking sweetwater alongside his people? 

Breaking Gendry out of his thoughts, Arya and Keera emerged from the inn, it must be an inn, he’d decided, and they brought with them an older woman who clung to their hands fiercely and smiled so wide Gendry’s face hurt to look at her. The woman looked to be past her fortieth year, her eyes crinkled at the sides and her hair streaked with grey just at the sides. Davos followed behind them, also smiling. Arya let go of The woman’s hand and climbed onto the nearest table, whistling loudly with her fingers. Everyone in the inn’s courtyard stopped talking instantly, their spines straight and eyes on her.  _ Gods she could control a room.  _

“Welcome to the Isle of Vilinos!” she began, throwing her hands into the air, allowing for some cheers but silencing them after a moment so she could continue. “For those of you returning, these rules should be familiar. Those of you here for the first time, listen well. Rule one! I will be no further than a one week ride away from this spot at any given time. None of you are to travel further than that. Rule two! Ser Davos must know where you are at all times and be able to reach you by raven. When you reach a town, send him a raven. When you leave a town, raven. Next town, raven. Get it? If it becomes necessary to leave suddenly and you are not where you say you are and you cannot be reached, we will not send search parties out for you. If you cannot leave with us, we will leave you. This is your warning, there will be no more. Keep track of yourselves, you’re not children. Rule three! Stick with a man that knows the country if you are new here. If you’ve been before, lend a hand to the new crew members. No teaching them naughty phrases and telling them that’s how you say ‘Hello’, no abandoning them, just don’t be a dick. That’s rule three. Don’t be a dick.” Her eyes were sparkling with amusement and her cheeks were just a little flushed, Gendry wondered if she had a few drinks in the inn. 

“Rule four! If you go to jail, you’ll stay there. Best behavior, boys. We are guests in this country, act like it. That’s it on rules, I think, but I do have some notes before I dismiss you all to do whatever it is you do. The lovely Tamra has rooms for all of those staying the night in Juqah.” there were cheers and hollers at Tamra’s name, and the older woman blushed. “I will be leaving for the Capitol day after tomorrow, anyone else making their way there is welcome to do so with us. Any questions, take them up with Davos, myself, or any senior member of the crew. That’s it! With exception of Davos’s training crew, you are all dismissed until we sail back.” The crew cheered loudly at this, and Arya made no move to silence them.

As Arya was finishing her speech, servers came out with platters of food and began to set them on tables. Gendry had eaten just enough to keep his strength up on the journey, but he’d been unwell pretty much the entire time and his belly hadn’t been properly full since he left Westeros. He was properly hungry, now, but realized he had no idea how to eat the food in front of him. It reminded him vividly of the first time he’d had to use a fork, then figure out which was the salad fork and which was the meat fork. What did these strange people eat with, he wondered?

Arya and the others came to sit next to him, and Gendry watched as Keera filled her plate, copying the way she piled white grains onto it and then arranged dollops of vibrantly colored meats and sauces around.

“Try everything, Va-Tor.” she said. “Let us know which you like the best, I will tell you all the names and we can make you more.” Gendry smiled at her and imitated the way she scooped up the sauce soaked grains and meats with a torn piece of bread. It had been so long since he’d eaten with his hands, it brought a sense of comfort and familiarity with it, and he didn’t feel so out of place. He took a large bite of meat stewed in a creamy orange sauce, then froze, the sounds he made completely involuntary. He’d never tasted anything like it before, the flavor was so intense and rich he felt like his mouth was coming alive for the first time. He’d grown up on dingy bowls of brown, tasting like water and tendon and dirt, so the first time he’d eaten castle food, he’d felt like he’d never truly tasted anything before. Somehow, now, he felt the same. 

“Eat, you skinny child!” Tamra scolded, piling little puffed triangles of flaky pastry onto Arya’s plate. Arya rolled her eyes and took a bite of one, scooping a green sauce up with it. 

“And you!” Gendry jumped a little to find the older woman was scolding him, now, and in such a motherly way, which was a new and strange experience for him. Despite that, it felt nice to be fussed over, even if by a stranger. Was he a stranger to her as she was to him? Had she been told about him as Keera had? Would everyone he met already know of him? He barely got to consider the implications of that before Tamra continued. 

“So pale, this one. Do you feed the boy? Eat, boy!” Gendry scooped up a bite obediently. “No, not that one, too spicy for Westerosi!” The bite had already passed his lips, and it was fire. How did they make fire into food? His cheeks and tongue burned, his eyes watered, his lungs felt like he’d just sucked in a breath of forge smoke. He coughed violently, and he knew his face was red. He tried to cover it, he did, but he simply could not breathe. Each cold breath he pulled in felt like a new wave of molten metal in his mouth and brought more of the spice into his lungs. It filled his nose, his throat, the heat hitting his entire body at once.

“Oh no,” Tamra sighed, pushing a bowl of something white at him. “Hold this on your tongue, it will calm the heat.” Still coughing, Gendry took it from her desperately and quickly filled his entire mouth with the substance, puffing out his cheeks. It appeared to be the same grain as he had been eating, but soaked in sugar and cream until the grains burst and made a silky pudding. Gendry moaned and leaned his forehead on the table, his cheeks so full that the cooling dessert touched every surface of his mouth. After a minute or two, the heat was doused, his mouth still tingled with the aftereffects and he still felt sweaty, but the pain was almost completely gone. He raised his head and saw Tamra looking concerned but Keera, Davos, and Arya all laughing. He swallowed the pudding in several painful gulps and took in a shaky breath.

“Who would enjoy that?” he gasped. Keera giggled and swiped the remainder of the bright red sauce off his plate, popping the sauce and bread into her mouth like it was nothing. Her cheeks didn’t even flush, and he knew that his were still redder than hot coals.

“It’s easier if you are used to it.” she said. “We should have warned you. Red means spice.”

“Noted.” he groaned, reaching to wipe the tears and sweat that mixed on his face.

“DON’T TOUCH YOUR EYES!” Tamra and Arya yelled in unison, freezing Gendry’s hand where it was, hovering between the table and his face. He hadn’t thought of that, but the burn he’d just felt in his mouth would be agony in his eyes.

“And whatever you do, do not urinate until you wash your hands.” Tamra added in a loud whisper. Gendry laughed, returning to eating little pieces of bread and orange sauce, which tasted more strongly with his tongue so raw and sensitive. He looked at Tamra for affirmation before he ate anything new, waiting for her to nod before tasting. He didn’t quite trust Arya or Keera for this task, they might give him something made of fire just for the sake of entertainment.

\---

As the night wore on and they ate their fill, the sweetwater was replaced with honey wine and mead, the sun dipped beyond the waves, and several Vilish drew out drums and began to play. Most of the sailors would leave in the morning, setting off to find their little villages, the friends and the girls they'd left behind months earlier. There were only ten of the crew that intended to follow their Captain to the Capitol, and since they had an extra day before they set off, they were the last to turn in, still enjoying the cool air and the dizzying cups of wine long after the music faded. 

All of them had been given their own rooms in the large inn, but Arya had tugged Gendry into hers, earning no protest. They fell into the warm featherbed, exhausted from their journey. As they lay, foreheads pressed together and hands clasped tightly between them, Arya looked upon Gendry’s face, so close to sleep but not quite gone. He was relaxed, his eyelashes falling on his cheek, his mouth slightly open, all the harsh lines of tension gone from his forehead

“What do you think?” she said so softly the breeze nearly ate the words despite their closeness.

“This is…Those kids were so happy. This is what peace looks like, isn’t it?” he whispered back. 

“Yeah. Do you feel at peace?”

“Not yet. Still too much work to do.” he said as he drifted off. “So much to do.”

\---

When they went down to break their fast the next morning, Davos made no indication that he had even noticed them sharing a room. As Gendry sat eating with Keera and Arya went off to discuss boats or something with Davos, Gendry wondered if he would be pulled aside for a lecture later on or if the old man really wasn’t bothered by their impropriety. Was it even improper in Vilinos for unmarried people to have lovers? 

“No, not really.” Keera explained when he asked. “Marriage is not necessary for children to be… what is the term Westerosi have?”

“Legitimate?” he offered.

“Yes. Which is different from fake children, a thing that you people believe exists.” Gendry chuckled. Keera’s moral outrage over the mere concept of bastards was one of his favorite things about her. “Anyway, since unmarried people can have children together, many people never marry or have children by different men and this is okay. Obviously if there is money or great love involved people marry, but marriage is not a quick process, so some never bother, and some try and do not make it through the ceremony. If you fail it is very hard to get people to sponsor your vigil again.”

“What do you mean? How does one fail at a marriage ceremony? What _ is _ the ceremony?” Gendry only knew of one way to fail at a marriage, and he did not think that Keera was referring to impotence.

“It’s less of a ceremony and more of a trial. It takes many people. A watcher, guardians, the couple, so at least five, sometimes more. At sunset the pair wash their hands together to cleanse themselves of the past. Virgins are not so important, here. Once your wife washes the past from your hands, she is the only lover you have had in the eyes of the gods. No one before her matters anymore, so you are virgins again. Once they are cleansed, they cut each other’s hands, both the same hand. They swear that this is the last pain they will cause each other, and then they kneel, clasping hands so the wounds bleed into one another and then the couple is of one blood, making them family forever. The pair must meditate on their future and their love until the sun is risen. If one of them leaves then the marriage is not official, so the guardians protect the pair from those who challenge their bond, try to separate their hands. The husband and the wife both have a guardian so one cannot be forced to stay if they try to leave or to leave if they want to stay.”

“What does the watcher do?” Gendry asked.

“The watcher is usually a priest, someone who does not have an opinion on the marriage and no reason to interfere. They watch the couple to ensure that they meditate properly, that they are not talking or laughing. Or doing anything else. It is the watcher who releases them from their vigil once the sun rises and pronounces their bond has been tested in darkness and emerged everlasting with the sun, or that their spirits are not meant to be bonded together for eternity so the vigil is failed.”

“Oh. In Westeros we just give a cloak, say a few words. It takes a few minutes.”

“Is this why so many are unhappy in their marriages? It is over so quickly they do not have time to make the decision well?” Keera asked, causing Gendry to laugh a little. 

“Maybe.” he admitted. “What are the signs a marriage will be good?”

“If the wounds do not get infected. An infection is seen as the gods’ disapproval. Very bad. Falling asleep during the vigil is another bad sign. It means you do not have enough to think about, that you become bored thinking of your love and your future with this person. Too many vigil challengers may be bad. One should sort that out before entering the vigil. You need to choose guardians you trust. If a guardian becomes a challenger, this is very bad for obvious reasons. Rain overnight is also a good sign. The suffering together strengthens the bond. The more beautiful the sunrise, the more blessed the marriage will be.”

“How does one determine if the sunrise is beautiful enough to be a blessing?” Gendry wondered.

“I don’t really know. Perhaps it is a personal thing. If one is bad-tempered enough to think a sunrise ugly after hours of contemplating their love then that is the reason the marriage is doomed to fail. Not because of the sunrise but because of the... grumpiness.”

“That makes sense,” he said, thinking. “It all sounds very complicated. Very difficult. You have to really want it.”

“Marriage is a decision of life, Va-Tor.” Keera stated. “Giving a life, joining them, ending them, these are things that should never be done easily or in haste. A life is the most valuable thing there is. One must be very cautious.” 

“It must be very difficult to make someone marry if they do not want to.” Gendry said.

“Nearly impossible. All one would have to do is let go of the other’s hand. Or just open their eyes if they feared retaliation, the other does not have to know. If the Watcher sees this, at sunrise he will release them and say that their marriage could not be blessed and their bond could not form. Once the wounds heal, both are free of each other and they are not married. Someone could be convinced against their will, of course, but it is the job of the Watcher and the Guardians to make sure this does not happen.” They ate in silence for a moment before Keera stopped, leaning back in her chair and watching Gendry with narrowed eyes. 

“What, Kee?” He said, gruffly. It wasn’t that he was mad at her, it was just habit.

“Nothing.”

“Lies. Speak your mind.” 

“Why all the questions on marriage?” she asked. “Are we curious or are we planning?” 

“Ha!” Gendry snorted. “I believe you know full well how that ended for me last time. I’m stupid, but I am capable of learning from my mistakes.” Keera rolled her eyes.

“It is not the same. She isn’t the same person and neither are you. Perhaps it is time to try again?”

“Not a chance. It’s her turn.”

“Children, both of you. Will you wait forever just to be stubborn?”

“That’s why they call me The Bull, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Arya said, walking up behind them and making them both jump in their chairs.

“I’m going to get you a bell.” Gendry said, changing the subject and hoping she hadn’t been behind them too long. 

“But you’re so cute when you’re startled.” Arya teased, poking Gendry in the cheek before walking away to follow Davos who was purposefully not watching the interaction between them. Gendry watched Arya retreat out of hearing before speaking.

“Hey, Kee?”

“Yes?”

“You’re my friend, too, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” she promised.

“Then, I know it is against the laws of the feminine bond or what have you, but could you and I have this one secret just between us?” Keera laughed.

“Yes, I think one is okay. As long as I get to be a Guardian at your wedding.”

“One day.” he promised.

\---

The road to the Capitol was one week of good riding, so similar to his treks up the King’s Road and through the Riverlands, but different in all the ways that mattered. The journey was equal parts familiar and new, and _ Gods _ , Gendry was enjoying himself. It was like adventuring and coming home all at once. And it was easy. Each man had a horse, they had two to pull the wagons full of their goods, plus two spares to swap out so the ones pulling the wagon would always be fresh. They made quick time without pushing beyond their limits. They made real camp, tarps overhead and below to keep the water off them. They had enough good food for three hot meals a day and plenty of water. They sat around the fires at the end of the day, laughing and trading stories with the satisfied exhaustion of hard work done well. He had no worry about getting ambushed, no fear of anyone following them, he just watched the trees, enjoyed the smells of the forest and the sounds of birds and rivers off in the distance, entirely relaxed. His feet hurt, because of course they did, but this was the best traveling he’d ever done, all the fun of it and none of the cold, the hunger, the suffering. 

Gendry woke each morning just after the sun with a broad smile on his face, ready to greet the day, eager to work the stiffness out, eager to talk to the sailors. He would leave the path sometimes and explore the forest along the road, bringing back berries he’d never seen, always checking with Arya before he ate them in case they were poisonous. He learned the Ironborn’s songs and taught them the ones he’d learned in the Riverlands in return. Gendry felt more at ease, more at home than he had in a decade. The time with Yoren and the Brotherhood may have been starving and running and miserable, but it was also the first bit of freedom he’d ever had, the defining experience that marked his transition from boy to man and he’d  _ missed _ it. Somehow, he had missed it! And Arya was here, just like before. _ ‘It really cannot get better than this _ ,’ Gendry found himself thinking.

Keera was not as amused. She was saddle sore, her feet hurt, and she was not used to sleeping on dirt. Gendry watched her amusedly, pouting around in the morning after breakfast, rolling up her bedroll. No matter how mopey she got about the work that was unfamiliar and unpleasant to her, Keera always did the work herself. 

Gendry had always hated highborns, their weakness, their selfishness, their superiority. He thought that Arya was the only exception, but not every highborn lady was going to be Arya or Brienne, some were going to be more comfortable in a council chamber or a feasting hall than a forest, and this didn’t mean they were weak or worthless. As of late, he had found himself enjoying the company of the more gentle type of people, Queen Sansa and Keera, even Samwell Tarly. He found that their gentleness did not diminish their strength, theirs was just strength of a different nature. Keera was a fighter, she’d done more fighting for the good of children than any person he’d ever met, but she fought with her heart and her mind, not a blade. In his youth, Gendry would have found Keera pathetic. He would have thought her vulnerable, a liability at best. He would have resented her for her soft hands and clean, pretty clothes. Gendry had grown to be able to see her strength for what it was and appreciate it, appreciate that the traits that he had seen as strength in his youth were not what he needed now. He had admired men like Yoren, Beric, even the Hound to an extent. Warriors. Ruthless and cold, every one of them. And every one of them dead. Keera’s softness was worth a hundred of them, and he prayed to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to whatever gods or spirits called the Isle home that the world would never take her softness from her. 

“Let me get that.” he said, lifting her heavy pack from the ground and tossing it into the back of the wagon.

“I am not a child, Va-Tor, I can do these things.” Keera pouted.

“I seem to remember you holding back my hair and bringing me soup for ten weeks, I can lift things.” He argued, crossing his arms at her. 

“He definitely owes you.” Arya added. “That was gross and you never once teased him. It would have been so easy to. It was hilarious.”

“He does not owe me anything. But thank you. We won't be in the woods for much longer, anyway. We should reach the city tomorrow.” she said. “Once we leave the trees we should see the towers.”

“That’ll be great, I’m sure you’re missing home.” Gendry told her. “You’ll get to see your brother!” Keera laughed.

“Oh yes! Arya! Aren’t we all looking forward to seeing my brother?” Gendry felt a familiar pang of jealousy hit his gut. Maybe he had nothing to worry about, but he had a feeling this was one of those times that Keera knew something he didn’t know. Arya rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure Keenan has been fine.” she said.  _ First name basis, okay.  _

“I’m looking forward to seeing how he’s fared. We’ve never been apart for more than a week or two before, and with mother and father out of town it has been just Keenan. Alone. I think he must be tragically lonely.” Arya scoffed.

“I’m sure he’s not. Gregarious Keenan has probably been throwing one big party in the palace since we left.”

“There seems to be an equal chance that he is wallowing in his loneliness or that we will interrupt some rampant frivolity and the palace will be trashed. Care to bet?” Keera offered, and Arya considered it for a moment.

“What if he was first lonely and then threw a party to feel better? Or if he threw a party but then became lonely? Who would win, then?” she asked.

“We assess the winner based on his state at the time we enter.” Keera decided firmly.

“What if he is having a party but not enjoying it?” Gendry offered, causing both women to laugh.

“Aye, That is most likely, I think.” Arya said. “I’m sure he’s been up to some sort of trouble.”

“I wonder what he has been doing to stay busy with us gone.” Keera said.

“It’s not like he has a country to run or anything.” Arya replied, rolling her eyes.

“Well, I look forward to meeting him. And to seeing your home, Keera.” Gendry said, really trying to not form an opinion of a man he had not met.

“Arya will give you a tour of the city!” Keera offered. “We will go to the palace first, obviously. To make introductions. And I desperately want to soak my feet in the garden pools. Then, which would you prefer first? The forges or the Senate? I know both interest you greatly.”

“Perhaps the Senate first.” Gendry said. “I wouldn’t want to get carried away in the forge and then go to the Senate covered in soot. I’d like to make a good impression.” Keera laughed.

“Do not worry so much. The senate is full of representatives for all people. The craftsmen’s representative is an artist and he is always covered in paint, his nails and his clothes. I do not know if I could recognize the man without paint on his face. The farmer’s representative comes to his chamber after his morning work in his own fields, always there is mud. The guild halls are filled with people from everywhere bearing the signs of their crafts. I do not think anyone would be offended because you work and make things, Va-Tor.”

“Ah, you haven’t smelled him after he’s been in the forges.” Arya teased, slipping Gendry a wink that made his cheeks flush, not because he was embarrassed, but because he knew how much Arya loved the smells of woodsmoke and steel and sweat on him. He remembered the way she raked her eyes over him as he worked, first in Harrenhall and then, later, in Winterfell, and his blush reached the back of his neck. 

“Perhaps next you should give him a tour of your home off Westbridge, Arya.” Keera said sweetly. “That would be nice, would it not, Va-Tor?” 

“Very nice.” Gendry agreed, mounting his horse.  _ Very nice indeed. _

\---

Keera was right. The next day they had only been riding an hour when the treeline broke, and Gendry’s froze on his mount, taking in what he could see of the city in the distance. It seemed that the entire city was built out of white and green rock, towers rose so high he could see them above all the other buildings. The thing that struck Gendry the most was the lack of walls. He could see markets and houses scattered around the outskirts of the city, you could just walk in from anywhere. There were no battlements, no gates, he couldn’t see any guard patrols. If this city were laid to siege, there would be no stopping it. He passed farms as he rode down the gravel paved path into the southern part of the city, which appeared to Gendry to be just one large garden surrounded by farmland. He could not see into the garden itself due to the large dense trees and shrubs around it, the path to the Palace hugging the treeline, but he’d had a better angle from up on the hill and it looked similar to the godswood and what he imagined the water gardens in Dorne were like. The path wound through orchards along the garden walls and toward the bridges that led to the palace itself.

He saw his first guards as they approached a bridge, and they happily stepped aside, holding their hands open palms up in front of them before bowing. Gendry took note of that, wondering if he ought to bow when he met the King. Maybe he should, but he wouldn’t unless Arya did. The guards wore gold and green, and their armor was unlike that he’d seen before, more angular and stylized. He was unsure how it would fare in true combat, but his desire to visit the forges was stronger than ever. The guards did appear to have curved swords at their hips, but they never reached for them or challenged the group as they approached. Davos and the men with the wagon had left as they entered the city, so it was just the three of them stalking about, which would have been very suspicious in the Red Keep without an escort. Gendry wondered if it was because they knew their Princess, they had expected the Westerosi expedition, or if it was common practice to allow people to come and go as they pleased. 

Entering the palace, Gendry was struck by the grandeur of it, pure white stone carved so intricately it took his breath away. Every wall, up to the tops of the high arched ceilings, had elaborate tableus etched into the stone, faces of warriors, beasts and men frozen eternally in combat. If the sculptures continued throughout the palace, which Gendry suspected they did, it must have taken thousands of men their entire lives to carve them all. How long had these been here, he wondered? Gendry wondered if the entire history and legends of this land were carved into these walls. Where in the palace were the carvings of Arya arriving on her Direwolf ship, bringing the rest of the world with her? Surely she warranted a large piece of wall. The carvings were not so deep and easy to overlook if one were walking quickly past, but once Gendry saw them he got lost in them until Arya pulled him out of his trance.

“These are neat, aren’t they?” she said, appearing at his side, pressing her shoulder into him. They’re as old as the palace, thousands of years. Some newer, but all hundreds of years old at least.”

“They’re amazing!” Gendry said. “These are more than legends, you can see them. Touch them.”

“Yeah. The stone remembers once the men are gone. This one’s one of the oldest. This is... Uh.. Ganosh, I think. Legend goes that when the island was new, Ganosh led the old ones up from the sea and claimed the island from the beasts that lived here first. He’s the spirit of innovation, conquest, and travel. I think, anyway. I didn’t pay too much attention in class and there are a lot of spirits.”

“How many spirits are there?” he asked.

“They are beyond counting. Every action, every intention, every place and person has a spirit. I’m most fond of Ramithya. Her family was murdered when she was a baby, so she was raised by beasts in the great forest and eventually she rose up to get retribution on her family’s killers, so now she is the spirit of female warriors and revenge and watches over those on quests for vengeance. Her mantle is by the West Gate. I will show you later. Come on.” She pulled him along through the halls, and Gendry wondered how many hours he could spend roaming the corridors before he had learned the names of each spirit that stared down on him from the walls. 

Entering the throne room, Gendry expected the cold intimidation of the Red Keep, but found a cozy room with gold and red, pillows lining the floor along the walls. The throne was cloth, comfortable looking, and empty. 

“He won’t be here.” Arya said, noticing him looking around. The guards that stood near the door did not move to stop them as Arya pulled Gendry by the hand through the throne room to a door on the back wall behind the throne itself. He entered behind Arya and she was immediately swept up in the arms of another. As she was lifted and spun, her hand was pulled out of his grasp and Gendry felt instantly angry at the loss of contact, and frowned deeper to see Arya smiling brightly and laughing while a tall, lean man had his arms wrapped around her legs, hoisting her high into the air and twirled around so her hair whipped around. 

“Gods Keenan! Put me down!” Arya laughed, pushing off the man’s shoulders. “Did you really miss us that much?”

“More than you can know, lovely wolf! Every day I convinced myself you died! Storms and sea beasts and pirates! It was awful!” He said, sounding excited and younger than he looked. He continued as he set Arya on the ground. “And yet, you bring my sister home safely! I wish I could’ve gone myself, sit and tell me stories until it feels like I did!”

“First,” Arya said, grasping Gendry’s hand again and pulling him forward, “This is Gendry Baratheon.”

“Ah! Your reputation precedes you, My Lord.” Keenan said, his enthusiasm dropping. He extended his hand and Gendry stepped forward to take it, disappointed to find that he and Keenan were the same height. Gendry was so used to being at least half a head taller than every other man he met, and honestly he enjoyed that his size was intimidating. At least he was wider than Keenan by half. That was something. 

“Well met, Your Grace. Your country is magnificent, I am eager to see more of it.” Gendry said tensely but polite enough that no one that didn’t know him well would notice it. Unfortunately, Arya did know him well and her grip on his other hand tightened for a second.

“Please join me and my sister for dinner, Lord Gendry, Arya. You all must be hungry from your journey. Please, tell me everything.”

“It would be a pleasure, your Grace. And please, Gendry is fine. The Lordship is recent and the name is still unfamiliar to me.”

“Of course, and my first name is acceptable, as well. You are friends with people I love and trust, I have no doubt we will be friends as well.” Gendry smiled at that, hoping that it would prove to be true, and following Arya to a low table and sitting, taking a glass of honey wine and taking a sip. The King was probably older than him but had the energy of a boy, always moving and smiling, waving his hands wildly as he spoke.

“So,” Keenan started, turning to Keera, “What is the strangest thing you saw in Westeros? Do they eat bears? Do they fight bears? Did you see any bears?” Ayra rolled her eyes.

“They keep their cities in boxes, they have only Seven Gods, they are secretive and they all carry weapons, but really they are not so different. They eat, they drink, they love. Westerosi are really quite similar.” Keera said.

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about Westeros,” Gendry said, making Arya snort into her wine.

\---

Hours later, the four of them were still seated at the table, deep in their cups, Keenan animatedly explaining the rules of a game to Gendry who was barely feigning interest.

“Let’s go to the gardens,” Keera offered, sleepily leaning over onto her brother. “The sun has probably set, so it won’t be so hot. You should see our gardens, Gendry.” 

“Wait! I have something to plant!” Arya said, standing and looking around for the bag she had dropped as she came in.

“By the door under the pillows.” Keenan said. Arya found it and rummaged for a moment.

“Now we can go,” Arya pulled out a wrapped package from the bag. The group stumbled out of the solar and through another corridor before they reached a bridge that arched from the palace, over the walls of shrubbery, and deposited them into the center of the sprawling gardens, lit by torches along the path and the warm glow of the setting sun. 

It was truly stunning, much more so than Gendry had expected from a distance. The place was a maze of colorful plants, white stone sculptures, and tranquil pools. Gendry was captivated by these trees with black wood and pink leaves larger than his hands. He had never seen anything like them before and doubted they existed anywhere else in the world, but Arya was not giving him time to observe his surroundings too much. He quickly made to follow Arya as she led the way, weaving through the paths, looking for something. Every couple of minutes, she would stop and examine the scene, then move on as though she was not satisfied with what she saw. The group followed her, slower and less surefooted. Even after hours of drinking Arya was still so graceful, the rest of them lumbering behind her and making so much noise on the stone path, losing sight of her as she turned corners. They caught up to Arya again, and she stood at a spot near the rear of the garden, her head tilted as if she was deep in thought. With the setting sun behind it, this corner of the shrubbery wall was left unadorned save for a small pool.

“This is perfect.” Arya said, moving to stand between the pool and the wall and pointing at the ground. “Right here.”

“What’s that, then?” Gendry asked, gesturing to the parcel she had clutched to her chest. Arya’s face split into a wide smile as she pulled back the cloth, showing the white wood underneath.

“A little baby Weirwood. It’s nothing, now, but years from now it will stand as tall as its mother does in Winterfell’s Godswood. Every Northerner that comes to Vilinos will be able to commune with the old gods, bless their children and their marriages. It’s a little piece of home so very far away.” She held the piece of wood like it was her own child, clutching it to her chest.

“What are you doing?” she asked as Gendry dropped to his knees in front of her, but he did not answer as he began to dig at the dirt with his hands, carefully moving the earth into a pile. Once he was satisfied his little hole was deep enough, Gendry sat back on his heels and looked up at her, waiting. Arya knelt beside him and gently placed the small sapling into its new home, both of them lightly packing the earth around it, their hands brushing occasionally as they did. Gendry stood and walked over to the small pool, cupping his hands to collect a small bit of water which he dripped slowly over the Weirwood, standing tall and holding his arms out so that the water fell from between his fingers like rain from the sky. Arya leaned her head into his leg, wrapping her arms gently around his knees and watched as the drops soaked the soil and rolled down the bark, welcoming the tree back into the earth where it belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this one took a little while, didn't it? 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of Vilinos!
> 
> PS: I fucking love the Weirwood scene. It wasn't in my outline, it just sort of happened and it makes my heart happy.


	12. The Way of Beasts

It was easy to forget about one’s troubles in the Gardens. Surrounded by the warm air and draped in moonlight, the stars shining above numbering more than the Vilish gods, the sweet smells of flowers and honey wine filling the air, it was hard to recall what troubles even were or why one would bother to have them. Gendry was laying on his back in the grass, staring at the moon, the gardens seeming to spin around his head. Nearby, Keera was sitting on the edge of a pool with her feet soaking in the cool water and Keenan had fallen asleep leaning against his sister, the gentle sounds of his snoring mixing with the chirping of insects and the faint birdsong in the air. Arya was walking slowly through the trees nearby, running her hands over every flower and leaf that she passed. Keeping his gaze turned upward, Gendry could not see her but he knew precisely where she was, listening to the nearly imperceptible sound of her bare feet brushing against the gravel and the grass, feeling the way the air shifted around her, sensing her presence as she moved around the garden the same way one feels as the sun moves across the sky. He felt as if he could forget himself here, stay in the gardens forever and abandon everything that came before. All the pain, all his dead, the living, too.

Gendry was suddenly struck with a creeping sense of unease. The warm air suddenly felt stifling and the calm of the garden felt like a trap, a moment of silence before an attack. His mouth ran dry and the honey on his tongue turned sour. A familiar tingling sensation started in his chest and pulsed out toward his limbs, the same feeling he got when he saw gold cloaks, when he saw someone unsheath a sword, the same feeling he got each time he had to fight or run. He could hear his own heart in his ears, it’s pounding increasing with every passing moment. He reached his arm out suddenly, touching Arya’s ankle gently. He rubbed a small circle into it and turned to find her staring at him, recognizing the expression on his face. She offered him a hand and drew him to his feet with much more ease than Gendry expected. She stood an inch from his chest, still clasping his hand, looking at him with concern.

“Is it too much? Do we need to leave?” she asked quietly enough that only Gendry could hear her. He nodded. Arya touched Keera on the shoulder.

“We’re going home. It’s late.” she said stiffly, a fact, leaving no opportunity for response before turning to leave. Keera nodded at them, and Gendry could not feel his feet moving as Arya pulled him out of the gardens, no thoughts clear in his head, only the screeching sound of steel scraping on rock echoing over and over in his mind. He only felt the pounding in his chest and the warm pressure of Arya’s hand, anchoring him. If he had been able to feel his feet, he would have noticed that they were running, but he did not. If he had heard anything, he would have heard the echoing sound of their feet against the stone floors, but he did not. It was as if all his senses had abandoned him, leaving only the anxious beat of his heart and Arya’s hand on his. 

Suddenly Arya’s hands were guiding him into a chair, one splayed over his heart and one stroking his face, bringing him back to the moment. He saw her kneeling between his legs, gazing up at him. He let out a shuddering breath and placed his own hands over hers, noticing how shaky they both were.

“I’m so sorry.” he said. “I don’t- I have no idea what's wrong with me. Forgive me, I-”

“Shh.” Arya cut him off, pressing her forehead into his. “You’re alright.”

“I know. I know. I’m fine, everything was fine, I don’t know why I did that.”

“It used to happen to me all the time.” Arya said. “They call it the survivor’s disease. Your mind thinks you’re in danger sometimes and you have no control over it. Was that the first time that’s happened?”

“I lose it sometimes, but not like that. That was worse. Why was that worse?”

“I don't know." she stammered, talking fast, "Sometimes there’s a sight or smell that sets it off. For me it’s the smell of death. I went out of town for a few days when I first came here and when I came back, the meat in my storeroom was off. I walked in and smelled it and I was so sick. I couldn't think. I just lay on my floor and cried and hurt myself until someone found me. I thought I was back at the Twins, it felt so real in my mind. I’m here, though. You’re not alone and you’ll be okay. I’m here.” she promised. 

“Where are we?” He asked, finally able to see his surroundings. Wherever they were it was nothing like the Palace. The room was breezy and open but made of warm wood and white tile, chairs and tables, shelves full of books and other assorted things he could not quite make out in the moonlight that lit the room through the window. 

“This is my house.” Arya said. “All mine.” She smiled at him and stood, lighting a candle and walking around, lighting the torches that hung off the walls, finally giving him a good view of the room. Gendry stood from the chair, his muscles still shaking, and followed after her as she pointed out all the things she had collected. He was fascinated more by her reaction to them, the way her eyes lit up, the way her mouth would twist up in a smile at the memories they evoked, the light touches of her fingers, the softness of her voice. He wanted to see everything that mattered to her, to know every story of hers, and he listened intently as she spoke. “This was a gift from a Nobleman in Yi Ti. We went sailing further West about two years ago and made it to Essos, spent a few months bouncing around the cities causing trouble. It didn't turn out to be a viable trade route, though. The closest port is Asshai and that's sure as shit not happening. I never want to see another Red Priest as long as I live.”

“Agreed.”

“This was carved for me by the representative of the artisans guild.” She said, running her fingers over a jade replica of the Nymeria, moving the dust that had settled over it.

“What are these?” he asked when they reached an altar in the center of the shelf, three carvings surrounded by incense and candles, a bowl of dried flower petals in front of them.

“My mantles.” She said as he settled behind her, wrapping his arms around her and resting his head on top of hers. “I brought three spirits into my home, asking for their guidance. I’m still not sure if the Vilish spirits can see us from their realm or if they care about foreigners at all, but I think remembering their stories helps anyway. Ramithya,” she said, pointing to the center carving, “I told you about her already. She got her vengeance, and I did, too. I think she would approve.” Gendry tightened his arms around her, trying to calm the restless energy that remained in him, his heated blood still pounding through his veins. 

“This one is Toha,” she said, gesturing to another. “Toha was a healer. He is the one you call on when you are sick or wounded. I had hoped he could heal what ails me, as well.”

“Who is that?” Gendry asked of the third carving, a shapely young woman with her hand outstretched to the sun and stone tears streaking her lovely face.

“Pretty, isn’t she? That is Zaahira. At the start of time, before sea and the sky and the land, Zaahira and Luz were lovers. It was forbidden, but they loved each other anyway. They met in secret, but Luz could not gaze upon Zaahira because the blackness was all that was. Luz burned with desire for her, and the more light he made, the more he saw of her, the brighter and hotter he burned until he was made of fire and she could not touch him anymore. He rose up to protect her from his flames and became the sun. In her loneliness she became the moon and her tears filled the sea. They dance around each other, only touching when the blackness overtakes the land again. Zaahira’s spirit protects young women, especially the sad ones. She is the spirit of beauty and magic.” 

“One day I will learn all their names.” Gendry said, breathing in the scent of her hair as he buried his face in her neck. Arya reached back to caress his cheek.

“There are so many.” she sighed. “Far too many names.”

“I wonder who will call upon your name.” he whispered, causing her to frown.

“What are you talking about?”

“Aren’t all their spirits real warriors?” he asked against her throat, leaving a kiss there that made her shudder before he continued. “There’s never been a better legend than that of Arya Stark, the warrior Princess who ended the end of days, who sailed out of the unknown and brought the rest of the world with her to Vilinos. One day, someone on a long, long, terrible journey will call out your name.” Gendry moved his hands to her caress her hips and she arched back against him, closing her eyes. “Someday you will be worshipped. Rebels will leave incense by your mantle. Men will pray to you for strength. Women will pray to you for wisdom. The spirit of grace. Resilience. Power. Love and beauty and-” Arya kissed him, tasting his words on his tongue.

“Brashness. Stubbornness. Patron spirit of liars and people who run away from their problems.” she offered against his lips.

“Aye, probably those, too.” he smiled into her kiss, moving his hand up to grasp her breast, pressing her against him and nipping at the pulse in her neck, her mouth falling open in a silent cry. “I see the bad and the good in you, Arya. I know who you are and yours is the mantle I choose to worship.” 

He ran his hand down her bare stomach, his calloused hands scratching her soft skin and setting each nerve aflame. Arya arched back harder, pressing her ass against Gendry’s thighs, rolling her hips against the harness straining his breeches. Gendry groaned and slipped his hand into her smallclothes, rubbing her with two fingers. She was so hot and wet and needy her knees almost gave out the moment he touched her but he held her up with a strong arm across her chest. She gasped his name as he rubbed tight, quick circles around her, and he blessed how much taller he was and that he was able to see her face as she threw her head back. He loved to watch her, her eyes shut tight, her eyebrows twisted together and her teeth working at her bottom lip as sweat and blush covered her. Arya bent forward as she came, grasping onto the bookshelf with both hands, trying desperately to stay standing despite her knees and her thighs shaking, threatening to collapse. He released her just long enough to free himself of his clothes, his breeches and smallclothes falling to his knees. He tugged the end of her wrapped trousers free, and they fell to the ground with her smallclothes. Gendry unlaced the back of her top and it fell forward, hanging around her elbows. His hands roamed her back as she rode out the aftershocks of her orgasm, then once it passed she pulled her arms out of her top and it fell discarded to the floor with the rest. 

She rose up on her toes, bracing against the shelf and threw her head back, shaking her long hair out over her bare skin. It tickled, adding to all the other sensations that overwhelmed her as Gendry entered her fully, groaning deeply in his throat as he did. He brushed her hair to the side, one hand on her stomach and the other running over her back, tracing the direwolf until she pressed back against him. Gendry drew back so maddeningly slowly that Arya almost snapped at him before he slammed back into her so hard the bookshelf shook and her knees buckled, his large hand under her the only thing keeping her aloft. He kept his pace, deep and hard and unrelenting, pounding her like steel and loving her song just as much. Arya’s elbows caved and she leaned further forward, her cheek pressed harder against the wooden shelf with every thrust, grasping the edge with white fingertips as the books crashed to the ground around them. Each time he drew himself nearly all the way out of her before sheathing himself within her again, hitting something deep that sent sparks flying behind her eyes and made her cry out, high pitched and breathy. She wasn’t even sure if she was saying words or nonsense. 

Gendry grasped a handful of her hair and pulled it towards him, raising her head and bringing her eyes up so she was looking straight into the carved face of Zaahira, the statue shaking every time he drove into her. Arya looked at the love in the spirit’s eyes and she understood. That fire, the desire that Luz felt for her, she felt it in Gendry’s hands on her skin, the friction of him within her, the look in his eyes. Arya knew the sadness that could fill an ocean and the heat that could light the sky. Arya knew. She had prayed to Zaahira for guidance and the spirit had given Ayra what she could not have herself. Love. They came hard together, Gendry’s name on her lips as he collapsed over her, holding Arya close to him. When her legs gave out, he fell to his knees with her and they knelt together on the cold tile, clutching each other and gasping for breath. Love. Arya felt an overwhelming sense of clarity pass over her.  _ Love _ . The confession caught in her throat.

“Thank you.” Arya whispered instead, whether to Zaahira or to Gendry she did not know. 

\---

Teetering between sleep and consciousness, Gendry reached out over the soft bed, looking for Arya but finding cool sheets where she should be. This snapped him awake, and he sat up, startled to find himself in an unfamiliar room. Gendry had woken up not knowing where he was plenty of times, and none of those had ended particularly well. Despite that, he felt calm take over him where there would usually be panic. The room he woke up in was bright and airy, all light wood and shining tile. There was a writing desk tucked in the corner, trunks, bookshelves lining the walls. This was not a prison or a castle. This was a home, Arya’s home. He was safe.

He stood, gently tugging the sheets back into place before making his way out of the bedroom to look for her. He heard her voice, humming a tune, and he followed the sound across the hall where he found her in the kitchen, her back to him. A broad smile broke out on his face when he saw her, barefoot and barelegged, clad only in his undershirt, chopping something while a pot of water boiled on the woodstove. Her hair was free, hitting her hips and mussed by sleep, cascading over her shoulders and down her back in a curled, tangled mass that Gendry desperately wanted to run his fingers through. 

She turned, the sunbeam pouring in from the window catching her face in a way that made Gendry’s chest tight, making it difficult to breathe.

“You going to stand there with that dumb look all morning or are you going to put back all those books you knocked over last night?” she asked, as if she was trying to sound annoyed but was betrayed by the smile on her face.

“Oh, I beg you, M’lady. Please excuse my clumsiness.” He said with a small bow. 

“I’ll make you beg, alright.” she teased, smacking his arm lightly. “I’ll bring breakfast in a moment, it’s nearly ready.” He nodded, heading back into the front room.

“Gods.” he said, looking at the mess for the first time in the daylight. Arya’s clothes still lay discarded on the floor, half covered in the books that scattered the floor. The bookshelf had been pulled away from the wall a few inches, and Gendry had to use his shoulder to push it back into place. He collected Arya’s clothes, folding them carefully and placing them on the edge of a chair. He carefully placed each book back on the shelf, reading the titles as he went. 

_ ‘A Treatise Of Poisons... The Feats of Nymeria... A Complete Account of The Blackfyre Rebellion… An Atlas of all Known Seas... The Great Houses of Westeros... Travels to Yi-Ti (And other stories from a sellsword)... Legends of Death: Who are the faceless men?... Dragon’s Song: The life and exploits of Visenya Targaryen...’ _

He placed the last book back on the shelf just as Arya entered the room, placing a tray with two bowls and two mugs down. Gendry adjusted the mantles, replacing some of the flower petals that had fallen from their bowl before joining Arya at the table. He grabbed one of the mugs, smelling the deep brown drink.

“Gods above, Arya, is this ka-fet?” he asked, making Arya laugh.

“Just the ka part.” she said, taking a deep drink. “It won’t get you drunk. Just the opposite, really. It’ll get your blood pumping in the morning or keep you up in the evening if you want. Drink it. It’s good.” he took a sip, recoiling at the earthy, bitter taste of it. Arya laughed again. “Most people drink it with cream and sugar.” she said, gesturing to two small containers on the tray. He kept adding cream until it was a light beige color, sipping every once in a while until he liked the taste well enough. “Nobody likes it at first, I think.”

“If it only tastes good with shit in it and no one likes it on the first try, why does anyone drink it at all?” 

“Same reason people drink ale.” Arya shrugged. “I remember I thought it was disgusting when I first stole sips from Robb’s glass as a child, but now I quite enjoy it. You drink ka because it makes you feel nice, and then, eventually, the taste for it comes.”

“And how does it make you feel, exactly?” Gendry asked. 

“Like you’ve just won a fight. Or run some distance. Awake and alive. Don’t drink too much, though. I once drank, shit, probably ten cups and I felt like I was dying. My heart was pounding and my stomach was up in knots. I didn’t sleep for two whole days.”

“This sounds like poison, Arya.”

“Just, fewer than ten is fine. Stick to the one, maybe.” she laughed, tucking into her bowl. Gendry followed, enjoying the taste of the strange tart fruit and honey. It was always Arya with the sweet tooth, finding berries along the paths they travelled or swiping little pieces of cakes from kitchens wherever she could, but Gendry had always been turned off by the taste of sugar, how it hurt his teeth and lingered on his tongue for too long. Now he found that he didn’t mind sweet things as much as he used to. Maybe he’d gotten used to sweetness.

Gendry wondered where the food had come from. He’d been with Arya since they got to the city, except for the little while he was sleeping. And she wasn't even dressed when he woke, so he knew she didn’t have time to go down to a market.

“Keenan sent some supplies down.” Arya explained when he asked. “He knew I wouldn’t have anything in the stores after the trip home. He does stuff like that.” Gendry nodded. “Thank you, by the way, for being nice to him yesterday.”

“I could have been nicer.” Gendry admitted, grimacing slightly.

“And you could have been a lot worse.” Arya teased. “He’s a good friend to have, I hope you two end up getting along as well as you and Keera have.”

“I think we will, it’s just going to take some getting used to.” Gendry explained. “I don’t dislike him, he just seems….”

“You can say it, I won’t be offended.”

“Childish? Is that the word? Energetic? He is certainly loud and, Arya, he’s  _ constantly _ talking.” 

“All of that is true.” Arya laughed. “It’s a lot at first, but you get used to it. He does have the ability to be an adult. He can be surprisingly pragmatic when he’s being all kingly.”

“How-” Gendry stopped himself.

“What?”

“I was just wondering, you seem close. How well do you know the King, exactly?”

“My gods, you’re thick, aren’t you?” Arya laughed.

“I was just wondering.” He frowned and looked down at his crossed arms. “Not really any of my business, anyway.” he said.

“Gen- _ DRY. _ ” Arya snapped, forcing him to look at her. “You’re jealous? Of what? It was always you, moron. There’s never been anyone else, and especially not Keenan, I mean he’s great, and a good friend but I could never see-.” 

“Only me?” he repeated, a dopey grin taking over his face.

“So far. It’ll stay that way if you can refrain from saying stupid shit all the time. Idiot.” she said, trying to sound threatening but failing. All Gendry heard was  _ ‘it was always you’ _ .

\---

His first week in the capitol (called Raiyun, he’d learned, although everyone just called it “The Capitol”), Gendry spent in trade talks with Keenan. He found Keenan to be agreeable. That is, Keenan agreed to everything. He proclaimed Davos a genius and promised him whatever he needed, and he was thrilled with the first trade rates that were put forth. He wasn’t thoughtless, but the deal was fair and ego was not among Keenan’s weaknesses. He would not argue against a fair deal just to get some upper hand. Gendry found himself slowly growing less annoyed with the King, even beginning enjoying his company. His boyishness was somewhat endearing, and he earned Gendry’s respect through his actions.

The King dismissed the servants before sunset but he worked long after they left, getting his own papers, serving his own dinner. Gendry had been walking down the hall once, returning to the meeting room after a short break, and seen the King stop to speak with a maid, asking after her father who had been ill. Gendry overheard the girl thank the King for the medicine he’d had sent, and the King had dismissed it humbly, saying he was only glad it was a sickness medicine could help. He had known the maid’s name, and her father’s. In all the time Gendry spent with Keenan, he could not find a reason to dislike the young King, finding in him many of the same traits that made Keera so dear. He was still loud, though.

When the trade deals were finalized, Davos had to leave the Capitol to oversee the construction of ships in Juqah and the formation of a sailor’s academy there. It saddened Gendry greatly to see Davos go, but Davos was so excited about the work, so Gendry kept quiet and wished him well. Gendry had loved having Davos by his side the past months, and he felt his absence greatly. In an effort to distract him, Arya showed him around the Capitol. 

The statehouse had been quite the sight, an impressive building of white stone, ceilings the height of oak trees making every sound echo through the halls. Arya introduced him to so many representatives Gendry could hardly remember them all. They visited Keera in her official chambers, but Gendry spent most of his time in the craftsmen’s guild hall. He was surprised to learn that smiths belonged to this guild and not the laborers’, but he liked the idea of being a craftsman better. He ate and drank with the other craftsmen who came through the guild hall to speak to their representative, make trade with one another, or partner on more complicated works. The leather workers and carvers were the most interesting to talk to, and together they came up with plans for hilts Gendry couldn’t dream of making on his own. 

The more Gendry explored Raiyun, the more he thought it was an odd city. It had no defenses, no gates or walls to protect it. The palace sat in the center, a massive stone structure rising out of the earth like a mountain. The palace was surrounded by a ring of clear water, home to swans and many colorful fish. Gendry and Arya would walk along the river paths some nights and Gendry regularly saw men fishing in the waters. Four bridges arched out, connecting the palace to the rest of the city, and each bridge led to its own district. The southern bridge led to the gardens, but the district extended for miles of orchards and fields of planted crops, home to only a few farmers and their families. Arya said that the Eastern district was mostly for academics, full of schools and libraries and museums, but Gendry had not been there. The Western district, where Arya lived, was where Gendry spent his time when he was not in the palace. This district held the temples, the state house, and a vast market square with hundreds of shops and stalls, selling everything from fine silks to books and fortune reading. One of the smiths Gendry had met in the guild hall owned a shop and forge in the market, and Gendry spent several long days there, learning how the Vilish smithed and teaching the ways of the Westerosi in return.

Gendry had decided to make a full set of Westerosi armor and gift it to the craftsmen's guild. His friend the smith spoke so little common tongue that Gendry was unsure of his name, unable to distinguish it from the rest of the Vilish he spoke. The two of them got along anyway, smiling and pointing to things. The Vilish smith would always get this massive smile on his face when Gendry showed him a new finished piece of the suit, and he had worn the gauntlets for two days, playfully punching things and laughing at the clanging noise that they made. Gendry didn’t even mind buffing the scratches out after. 

He was pounding away at a breastplate one day when Arya came in, silently sitting on a nearby table and watching him work, waiting for him to notice her. He felt her presence immediately, noticing how the apprentices stopped talking when she walked in. He figured the boys must have all been around six and ten, and the group of youths were always laughing and talking amongst themselves in Vilish as they worked. Gendry did not mind their chatter, usually, but all of them blushed and looked at their feet the moment Arya entered the shop, and this made Gendry wonder what exactly they had been talking about. Young men were the same everywhere you went, Gendry decided. At least these boys had enough manners about them to fall silent in the presence of a Lady. 

“‘Ello there, M’Lady.” Gendry said, kissing her on the cheek and leaving a sooty smudge along her jaw. 

“You about finished?” Arya asked, rubbing at her face and frowning. “I want to show you something.”

“Just a moment, let me get a bit cleaned up.” Gendry said, leaving to the washroom in the back of the forge. It was nice to have more than a bowl of water and a cloth to wash with, especially in the heat of the forge and Vilish summer. He stripped and stood on the deep red tiles, gathering a bucket of water from the vat and pouring it over his head, watching as it disappeared through the cracks in the tiles into the ground below. He scrubbed himself with soap and a brush, then rinsed with two more buckets of cool water until the water running off him was clear. As he dressed, Gendry silently planned on how to make one of these rooms in his own forge back in Storm’s End. In the winter it would be quite easy to warm the water near a kiln before using it, and if he built it on the wall nearest the fires the room would never be too cold. 

“Ready.” he said, walking out and pulling on his tunic. Arya pouted as he did so.

“Behave, Princess.” Gendry teased, not able to help the slight blush that crept onto his cheeks. “Where are we off to?”

“We’re going to go to the children’s hall.” Arya said, pulling him along. “Keera mentioned you have an orphanage running in the Stormlands and thought you might like to see how hers is run.” Gendry smiled, walking a little faster. The only orphanage he’d ever seen was the one he’d lived in, and that was no better than homelessness. Gendry had done his best when making his own orphanage, but Keera was so much better suited to it and he was happy to defer to her expertise. 

They stopped twice in the marketplace, buying hard candies from the confectioner’s and children’s books from the book stall. Leaving the busy market square behind, they walked along the quiet temple street where the air smelled of incense and flowers. They were nearing the division of the Western district and North Town when Arya stopped, walking up a long set of stairs and into a sturdy, tall building, Gendry following closely behind her with his armfulls of books. 

As soon as he entered the large wooden doors, Gendry was hit in the face with the noise of laughter, nearly tripping on two small children chasing each other. The halls were painted along the bottom half and not expertly. Crudely painted murals of dragons and sea creatures and wild horses extended up to Gendry’s chest, as if that was as tall as the painter could reach. These were children’s drawings. 

As an orphan child, Gendry had been told that he was nothing, that no one cared what he felt or thought, that his birth was a mistake, and the best thing he could be was invisible. He spent his youth trying not to be in the way, trying to stay quiet and stay alive, and that had filled him with rage. These children, running, laughing, painting on walls, they got to be loud. Children should be loud. 

Gendry followed Arya into a courtyard at the center of the building. There were children playing on rocks, older children playing games or reading at the tables, and a group of small ones in the grass, playing some sport with a ball and sticks. One of them caught sight of Arya and called out, then the children swarmed over to her where she waited, arms open for them. 

“Did you really go over the sea again?” a little girl asked. 

“I did!” Arya exclaimed, her voice warmer than usual. “I got to go see my brothers and my sister and so many old friends.”

“Miss Keera came back, too!” another child called.

“I know! Did she tell you all about it?”

“She told us that there’s going to be loads of ships and when we grow up we can go to Westeros too!” a toothless boy said, his hands on his hips. “I’m going to be a knight like from the books.”

“Why do you want to be a knight, Yuris?” Arya laughed.

“So I can save some girls, of course.” he said confidently.

“Are you from Westeros?” a girl asked Gendry.

“Yeah, I am.” he said. “I’m Gendry, Arya’s friend.” The girl looked him up and down once, her eyebrow cocked and her arms crossed.

“Friend?” she asked, suspicion in her voice. The girl was tall and probably around four and ten, her hair pulled up in two buns on either side of her head. She looked shrewd, clever, a little mean. Gendry tried to stammer out an answer, unable to find words.

“Aditi, be nice to him.” Arya laughed. 

“Are you a knight?” Yuris asked.

“I was when I was younger.” Gendry said. “I was knighted at Hollow Hill when I was a boy.” The boy looked interested. Aditi took the books from Gendry, reading the titles. Arya had sat in the grass, telling the small flock of children about her home and her family. Yuris stayed by Gendry, asking him about being a knight. 

“Were you a strong knight?” he asked, rolling back and forth on his feet. “You look strong.”

“I got strong from smithing, not knighting. I wasn’t really that good, but it was dark times and everyone was a fighter, then.”

“Do you have a sword? Does it have a name? Can I see it?”

“I’m better with a warhammer, it has no name, and I left it on Arya’s ship.”

“That’s rotten.” Yuris pouted. 

“I can bring it next time.” Gendry offered, and the boy perked up. 

“Who is the best knight ever?”

“Probably Brienne of Tarth.” Gendry said thoughtfully. “She’s the commander of the King’s Guard and the best I’ve ever met.”

“A lady knight?” Yuris asked, eyes wide.

“Aye, a lady knight. And she’ll beat any man. She’s stronger than anyone else and she’s braver and more loyal, too. Best knight is Westeros.” The boy looked thoroughly impressed. 

“Now it’s your turn,” Gendry said, “Tell me about yourself, Yuris.”

“I’m six,” he said proudly. “I like horses and knights and I am not allowed to play swords anymore since I whacked Miss Daisa in the eye.”

“Who is Miss Daisa?” 

“She’s the one who helps with the reading. We learn it at school, but we do it here, too, so we get really good. The letters get all jumbled in my head and I always read them wrong, so I have to do a lot of lessons with Miss Daisa. She’s nice, but she makes me sit still to read and that’s hard.” Gendry looked at the wriggling boy and agreed that getting him to stop moving would be quite a challenge. “She wasn’t mad about the eye, it was an accident, she just said I should wait till I’m older and can pay better attention.”

“I think Miss Daisa sounds pretty smart.” Gendry nodded. “Is everybody nice?”

“Yeah, I like coming here. I’m glad my mum was working today so I could meet you.”

“You live with your mum?” Gendry said, surprised. He had thought this was an orphanage.

“Yeah, up in Northtown. She has a job and so I come here before and after school so I’m not alone. That way I don’t get into any trouble.”

“Well that’s nice.” Gendry said. “What does your mum do for work, Yuris?”

“She works at the laundries. She likes it because it’s just other ladies there. My dad was mean to her so she doesn’t like men too much.” Gendry furrowed his brow. 

“Do you want to talk about that?” Gendry asked.

“He doesn’t live with us anymore, but I remember he used to drink a lot and then he’d be mean to my mum. One day I came home and he was gone. I wasn’t sad about it, just confused, so I asked my mum about it and she told me it was grown people business. Then I asked other people and they said that the King has rules against hitting girls and kids, so they took him to jail.”

“That’s… that’s good for your mum, then.”

“Yeah. She says she’s proud of working at the laundries because she gets to be free. I’m proud of her, too.”

“I think your mum sounds really brave, Yuris.” Gendry said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Perfect mum for a knight.”

“You’re big and scary looking, she would not like you at all, but I do. I like you a lot” 

“Yuris!” a woman called from across the courtyard. She was eyeing Gendry suspiciously, so he removed his hand from the boy and smiled at her, trying to look nice. 

“That’s my mum! I’ve got to go, Gendry, will you come back?”

“I will,” he promised, then waved at the boy until he left the courtyard. Arya sat next to him, bumping his shoulder with hers. 

“Make a little friend, did you?” 

“He’s a good kid.” Gendry said. 

“His mum’s good, too. Her name is Safya.” Arya said. “I was here when all that business happened. Saf went to Keera, her husband was getting worse, drinking more and hitting her more. She was scared that he’d hit Yuris. They took him that day. He won't be allowed around women or kids for the rest of his life and Keera makes sure Saf and Yuris get on okay.”

“So these aren’t all orphans, then.” Gendry said, gesturing around them. 

“Some are. Lots of kids spend the day here so their parents can work. It doesn’t cost the parents anything, and it’s a place where the kids can see their friends, learn if they want. They’re here by choice. The children that live here are taken care of. They’ll all get apprenticeships of their choice when they’re old enough. Aditi wants to be a healer. Keera could tell you what each of them wants.”

“I need a Keera.” Gendry sighed. 

“We all need a Keera.” Arya laughed.

“I mean for the Stormlands. I want to build a center just like this in Storm’s End, I’ve got to find someone to run it.”

“You will,” she assured him. “Come on, it’s getting late. We can come back another day so you can meet all the carers and the teachers. We should get on home.” Gendry was struck every time Arya referred to the little house as theirs. She’d done it a few times, and each time she did Gendry’s chest got tight and he had to remind himself to breathe. 

They were walking home past the temple street when Arya grabbed Gendry’s hand and stopped. 

“I need to leave for a few days.” She said. Gendry was confused.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I need to go see someone. He’s… He’s like my Davos.”

“Your Davos?”

“Davos is like a father to you, isn't he?” Gendry nodded. “Karris is the same for me. He took me in when I first got here, and I was a disaster, so I have no idea why he put up with me, but he helps me. He knows what to say to me, he helps me understand. We knew the trip home would be… complicated, so I promised we’d talk as soon as I got back, and I need to go see him.”

“Okay.” Gendry said. “That’s a good idea.”

“Do you want to come with me?” Arya asked. “You don't have to, but I think he’d like you and you have some problems he could help you understand, as well.” Gendry just stared at her and she grabbed both his hands. “I know you don’t sleep well, Gendry, and I know you have nightmares. The panic fit you had in the gardens won’t be the last one, it’ll get worse and I can’t help you. All I know is what Karris has told me, I cannot help you as well as he could. You deserve better than I can give you.”

“I’ll come.” he said, squeezing her hands.

“Oh good!” Arya smiled. “He’ll enjoy meeting you, I think.” 

“Is this Keera’s father?” Gendry asked as they began to walk again. Arya looked up at him. “She told me you stayed with her father when you first got here.”

“She did? Well, yes, Karris is Keenan and Keera’s father. He and his wife live by the cliffs, now, ever since they retired and Keenan became King.”

“A retired King.” Gendry said, shaking his head. “It’s still an odd thing to me.” Arya laughed.

“He’s happy. Kings born into it spend their whole lives wondering what it would be like to be somebody else. A maester, a knight, a farmer. Karris wanted to be a shepherd, and now he is. He lives on the cliffs, watching the sea and his sheep. His wife was once a powerful queen and now she makes cheese and butter and writes poetry.” Gendry laughed.

“Poetry?” 

“Oh yes. That’s the best part of growing old, I think. You’ve got no expectations on you, no one to tell you what to do, so you just do what makes you most happy and you’ve had your entire life to find out what that is.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll still be able to smith when I’m eighty.” 

“Maybe you’ll have to take up poetry yourself.” Arya teased, making Gendry laugh loudly. 

\---

The trip had taken only three days, but it felt longer. They had ridden hard without breaking for too long and were saddlesore. They rode over plains, so there was not much to see. If they were riding through a forest, they would have had lots to talk about. They could have played the sighting game or talked about all their other travels, but Arya and Gendry were quiet as they rode by pasture after pasture of sheep and the same rolling grassy hills for days. 

Finally, a small cottage came into view, seemingly on the edge of the world. There was grass and land leading up to it, but on the other side was just sky. Arya secured their horses as Gendry walked, spellbound, to the cliffs. There was no fence, so he just walked right up to the edge and looked out. The sound of the waves crashing against the white cliffs was so distant, the sea itself so far below them that Gendry could hardly believe what he was seeing. He had felt utterly dwarfed by the cliffs from the bottom, and now he looked out from the top, able to see more of the world at once than he had seen in his entire life. He wondered if he’d be able to see himself from the bottom, standing there and looking down like a god overlooks the land from the sky. There was a mighty wind up the cliffs, and Gendry could feel it on his face, blowing him away from the edge, the roar of wind was a warning. He was grateful for it, because otherwise he may have leaned too far over and fallen into the waters below. He wondered how long it would take to fall, if anyone had done it before. If this cliff was in Westeros, there would be a line of broken men all the way back to Raiyun waiting their turn to jump, eager to die with such a final view, better than anything they’d seen in life.

“Gendry!” Arya called, probably not for the first time.

“Huh?” Gendry said, whipping his head around to see Arya standing behind him, waiting. 

“Distracting, isn’t it?”

“It’s… The sun rises from that way. D’you think we can watch it tomorrow?” Arya smiled at him. 

“Yeah. We can do that. Come on, though. This isn’t what we’re here to see.” Arya pulled him toward a cottage, small and charming, the hill it was sat on covered in flowers. She reached out to knock on the door, but before she could it swung open and she was pulled into the arms of an old woman. 

“Sweetling, what took you so long! We’ve been waiting since we saw your ship!” The old woman exclaimed, crushing Arya in her arms.

“Some official business in the city, I’m afraid. And I took a few days to show him around.” Arya said, gesturing over her shoulder to Gendry, who shifted his weight awkwardly. The old woman examined Gendry for a moment, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“Well, goodness. Isn’t that a sight.” she said finally. “Come in, the both of you. Karris will be back any minute, now.” Arya led Gendry into the cottage, settling next to him on a comfortable couch. Gendry took a look around the cottage, and he had a hard time imagining a king living here. This cottage was warm and welcoming, but in comparison to the grandeur of the palace it was tiny and worn. It was the home of a set of doting grandparents, not kings and queens. He looked at the woman pouring him tea and tried to imagine her as a Queen, strong and guarded like Sansa, as zealous and fierce as Daenerys, even as proud and ruthless as Cersei, and he could see none of it. He wondered what type of Queen she was, then remembered that this was Keera’s mother. She was likely just the same as her daughter, smart and kind and determined. Gendry smiled at her and muttered thanks for the tea, bowing his head slightly.

“Arya it seems your handsome friend is shy, you may have to do the introducing for him.” The old woman teased, making Gendry blush.

“Gendry, this is Merrite, the Queen Mother of Keenan and Keera. Merrite, please meet my oldest friend, Lord Gendry Baratheon.”

“Gendry is such a nice strong name. How long have you known our Arya?” Merrite asked him.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I’ve known Arya since I was a boy. Nearly twelve years, now.”

“A loyal friend.” Merrite nodded. “And polite. Good. More tea, Gendry, dear?”

“Aye, Your Grace.” he said, holding his cup up to meet her pot. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Arya pursed her lips into a smirk, and Gendry had the urge to stick his tongue out at her, but resisted it. Barely.

“How are my children, Arya?” the old woman asked “How did Keera fare on the trip?”

“I believe Keera quite enjoyed herself in Westeros. She made many friends. She and my sister got on particularly well.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She said, then was interrupted by a man, her husband, Gendry assumed, throwing the door open and rushing into the room.

“I saw the horses!” He called “Ahh! There she is! The adventurer returns!” The tall old man swept Arya up in his arms easily, squeezed her tightly, then set her down, a hand resting on the top of her head as if she was a child. “It is so good to have you back with us safely, little one.” He said softly.

“I came as quickly as I was able.” Arya said, smiling. 

“Tell me, dearheart, how does your family fare? Are you alright?” Karris asked, shooting a quick glance to his wife. Gendry knew it, he’d seen its like between Ser Rory and his wife. There was an entire conversation in that look.

“Gendry,” Merrite said before Arya could answer. “It has been so long since I’ve had a strong young man about, could you please help me with some things?” Gendry knew Arya and the old king had much to discuss privately, so he immediately rose to follow Merrite. 

“It would be my pleasure.” he said, closing the door of the cottage behind him. Karris watched him go, waited a beat to ensure he was out of earshot, then turned back to Arya.

“So the trip home was successful, then?” he said. 

“It was not what I expected.” Arya admitted. “Better.”

“Good. Tell me, how do you feel? Did you find the answers you were looking for?” Arya sighed.

“I found answers I was trying to avoid. I think… I think I was wrong to leave.” Arya admitted. “I think I made the wrong choice.”

“Our choices are our makers, Arya, your choice cannot be wrong as long it makes you better, despite what else it brings.” Karris said. “Why do you think you choose wrongly?”

“Because I don’t know if I am better. I fear I am not. For years now everyone’s kept saying I ran away, and I was so convinced that I hadn’t. I was so convinced that I was doing the right thing. I was so sure that it made sense, but I am starting to think that I did run away. I was so scared, but I didn't even know it.” she said, staring into her tea.

“Scared of what, Arya?” she sucked in a deep breath.

“When I was No One, I was told to renounce myself, forget myself, and I was close. I was on the verge of losing my old self forever and when I tried to get her back I was scared that there wasn’t enough of me left. I was afraid that I had been too late, that I would be empty forever. And I felt empty. The memory of home, my family, it was all I had to keep myself going. For so many years that's what I fought for, and then I had it. I had it and it didn’t feel right. My home didn’t feel like mine and my family were strangers to me, I’d missed them more when I’d been gone, so if I left again I could pretend everything was right again, waiting for me. I had worked on my list for so long it felt like a part of me, their names meant more to me than my own, and then it was over, and it didn’t even make a difference. I felt the same, all anger and numbness. I thought finishing the list would make it better, that I would get my name back, and it changed nothing, so I thought that nothing could. I was broken, and I had no home.”

“Arya, did you want to die when you sailed West?” Arya snapped her eyes up to meet Karris’s. “You didn’t have any reason to know you would find anything at all,” He continued. “ You sailed into nothingness with a broken soul. Did you intend to die?”

“I don’t… maybe. I don’t know.” she sighed. “I don’t think I would’ve minded dying, I expected that I probably would.”

“So you know, now. You ran. What did you learn upon your return?”

“Only that I’m weaker than I thought I was.” she said sadly. “I was so proud of how strong I was, but I was lying to myself. Killing didn’t make me strong. I couldn’t handle it after the war ended, but the rest of them could. Sansa rebuilt the North from nothing, alone. Gendry went from bastard smith to Lord Paramount in a day and he faced it, conquered it. They all stood their ground and I couldn’t. I ran and they didn’t.”

“Gendry. Is that the nice boy outside?”

“Yeah.” she blushed a little. “You’re not bothered?”

“Not in the least. I did have hope, once, that you would become my true daughter, but that isn’t the best path for you. Keenan could have loved you, but he could not be what you needed. He is a lucky boy, he has never known hunger or despair. Now that’s a good thing, and I am proud, as a father, that I could shield him from the terrors of the world, but he cannot understand you. He will never be able to see the parts of you that most need loved, the nightmares and the guilt and the emptiness that haunts you. You need someone who sees those, knows them, shares them, and is not afraid. I think you are on the right path, and that makes me glad. Besides, you have been my daughter since the day we met regardless of who you choose to love. It only matters to me if you are happy.”

‘I am on my way. It is a long road.” Arya said. “I still do not feel at peace, though. I keep seeking guidance from the spirit Ramithya to find where my quest for vengeance needs me to go next, so it can finally end, but I cannot find the answer. I have done as she did, I avenged my family, but in my soul I feel like it isn’t over. I don’t understand what I need to do to find peace, so I look to her and I ask what she would do.”

“You have always misunderstood that story, Arya.” The old man frowned. “Tell me, who is Ramithya to you?”

“She is the only spirit who answers me.” Arya said defensively. “Her family was killed, like mine. She was raised feral, without a home, like me. She rose up and got justice, just as I have done. Ramithya is the patron of vengeance and she is the spirit I light incense for. What do I misunderstand?”

“Her family was killed, Arya, this part of the tale is true, but Ramithya did not seek justice. She sought only blood. She killed everyone, innocents and children, any person she saw in her path. She killed the people responsible for her family, but those were only a few among her dead. She killed hundreds. In her rage, she did not fight wisely. She allowed the men to land mortal blows on her just so she could land her own. She was already dying when her mission ended. Like you, she thought there was nothing else after her mission, and for her there wasn’t. Because of her rampage, her reckless rage, there was no one left to heal her, help her clean her wounds. She had killed not only her enemies but all those who may have been her allies. She walked alone, bleeding out, her wounds festering, through the smoke and ash of the towns she burned. Then, when she returned to the woods, she died. She did not need to, she might have lived if she had let the innocents live or if she had only protected herself. Ramithya met her end alone in the forest. The same animals that raised her ate her corpse as though she was nothing to them, for that is the way of beasts. Ramithya was a beast, in the end, and not a woman any longer. Her legacy is not one of victory but one of senseless death, and you must take care not to follow her. You have lived a similar life, it is true, but you do not have to meet the same end. You need to make different choices than she did, Arya, and diverge your path from hers.” Arya stared into her tea, thinking. 

“How, Karris? How do I do that when I feel in my heart that there are still guilty men in the world? Killers and rapers and traitors. All the men that watched and did nothing while Joffrey hurt Sansa, while Bolton hurt Sansa? While the Night’s Watch killed Jon? As they labelled my father a traitor and killed him even though they all knew he wasn’t. Warmakers and traitors and snakes walk free and I can’t rest because it  _ hurts _ . It hurts to know that they sleep well and suck down air they don’t deserve when good men die. How do I leave them to find their peace when I cannot find my own?”

“Because it will kill you if you don’t." he said simply. "Ramithya lived for one purpose. She never thought beyond her mission, she never kept worldly possessions, had not one friend, no lovers, no true home. To become different from her, you have to have… something. Something that matters more than your vengeance. You need roots, you need to commit to something, you need to give your life meaning. I don’t know what it will be for you, a kingdom, a family, a calling, but you need to find it. You have people who love you and will help you, but it will be up to you to make that choice. You need something permanent that you cannot run from. Something to remind you of who you are and what your purpose is, because it is not killing, my dearheart, I can assure you of that.”

“How do you know?” Arya said softly. 

“Because,” the old King said, “Ramithya would not be sitting in my home, drinking my tea, trying to be better. You are not Ramithya, the spirit of vengeance, you are Arya, whose tale has yet to be written.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a lot of emotions about this chapter. This is very long, we get to see more of Vilinos, more of what matters to Arya. We get to see the values of the society in Vilinos start to be explored and more of their culture. Obviously I've made some artistic choices, gone wayyyyy the fuck off canon, and made it my own. The religion in Vilinos is pretty crucial to the central themes of this work, and it made me really happy to write. It will continue to play a big role, particularly in the next chapter. I hope you enjoy what I'm doing, it brings me a lot of joy to write this work and sharing it, having conversations about it, knowing that other people enjoy it really makes it more special for me. Thank you all!


	13. The Death of Peace

The sun rose over the sea, making the sea glow in all its many colors, shining light and calm sea all the way to the horizon. The best painters in the world could not capture the depth of it, the expanse of it, the way the light shifted on the water as the sun rose and the colors changed, somehow more beautiful with every passing moment. Gendry could see the end of the world as he sat on the cliffs, himself a bit further back than Arya who dangled her feet from the edge, kicking playfully like she was sitting on a worktable in his forge and not a thousand foot drop. She was not afraid. Gendry was, although perhaps not fearful, more cautious, for he knew the danger of beautiful things. The thorns hidden in a thicket of roses, the pulling tide under still water, the bite of snow, the sharp edge of a blade, concealed under silks until needed, the temptation of a beautiful view that promised death to those who coveted it too strongly. 

She convinced Gendry, and it did take a great deal of convincing, to crawl towards the edge and lay prone, inching forward until his head hung out over the sea, looking down into it. The sharp wind blew his hair back and brought tears to his eyes, but it was exhilarating. From this vantage, he could see the colors of sunrise emblazoned on the white cliffs, the waves crashing against the land. Looking forward, eyes out to the horizon, the breeze burning his face, he felt like he was flying. If not for the press of his chest against the ground, Gendry might believe he truly was. He clutched Arya’s hand in his and they laughed together like children. They extended their arms in front of them, grasping at the sky. He looked over at her, laughing and winswept, and he was not afraid. 

Karris stood behind them for quite a while before he made his presence known, coughing gently before telling them that their morning meal was ready, if they felt like eating. The old king smiled warmly at him, patting Gendry on the back as they made their way inside. Gendry had been surprised by how welcoming the couple had been with him, a stranger. He had slept in their spare room, which they hadn’t hesitated to allow him and Arya to share. The dinner conversation came easy and they were truly interested in his life. He had to constantly remind himself that these were once the rulers of a nation, he became so oddly relaxed in their presence all propriety of station slipped away until he caught himself. Gendry’s heart was still pounding in his ears when he sat down with them, eating warm bread and fresh butter, the same he’d helped Merrite make the day prior. 

“I know our Arya would be quite cross with me for it, but I am sorely tempted to steal you for myself, Gendry.” The old queen said, making Gendry’s ears go pink. “You should have seen him, Karris! Boy has arms like tree trunks, and strong, too. With these old arms it takes me near an hour to churn the butter, and he did it in five minutes flat, didn’t even break a sweat. Isn’t he very strong, Arya?”

“Mm-hmm.” Arya replied, smirking around her bite of bread. Gendry lowered his head to hide the blush rising up on his cheeks.

“Merrite, please, leave the young people be.” Karris begged, and Gendry shot him a thankful look. 

“I was wondering if we could visit the spirit winds today.”Arya said, setting down her tea with a sharp  _ tonk _ . All the joking mood was instantly sucked out of the room, Karris and Merrite stiffened at her words. “I have some questions.” Gendry was confused, but Karris nodded solemnly. 

“I think that would be for the best.” he said. “Let us hope they are in a helpful mood.”

\---

They rode in silence along the cliff’s edge for a time, and when the sun was high they came upon the oddest structure Gendry had ever seen. Stone pillars rose out of the earth, roughly cut and unevenly spaced, creating a half moon along the edge. There were holes cut in some of the stones, but Gendry could not fathom what their purpose was, or why this place had set the old King and Queen on edge. He moved slowly, cautiously, watching Karris and Arya, lest he disturb something he shouldn’t.

“Remember,” Karris began as he dismounted his horse, “They are only men and they lie. Ask your questions and seek guidance, but be careful not to put too much stock in their words.”

“I know.” Arya assured him, turning away and walking toward the structure. She passed the stone threshold and knelt in the long grass. He could see her mouth moving, but could not hear the sounds that came from her lips. She was only a few feet away but her words were lost to the wind. It was as if the area beyond the stones sat in a realm separate from their own.

“Sit, son. She will be in the circle for some time.” Karris said, and Gendry sat next to him in the grass, picking at the blades with his fingers. 

“What is this place?” Gendry asked.

“A holy place. This is the Easternmost point of the Isle, the exact center of the cliff’s edge, where the winds are the fiercest. This is where the ancients chose to build their first temple, and because it is the oldest it is where the spirits are felt most strongly. There are many more temples than this, but this one holds the most power.” Gendry wondered why there was no one else here, no priests or other seekers of knowledge. “The spirit winds holds most power, this is true, but also holds the least glamour, which is why most favor others.” Karris explained. “Only a desperate man with a good memory or a book of histories would come here for their answers. I brought Arya here for the first time many years ago, hoping the spirits could give her answers that I could not.”

“They talk? You can actually talk to them?” Gendry said in disbelief.

“In a way. The spirits do not talk to just anyone. Most will step into the circle and feel nothing, but for some chosen few the spirits reveal themselves. Sometimes a spirit will claim a person, try to guide them, and these people can hear the spirits that wish to be heard. The others, they get the guidance of priests or they work out their own petty problems in the solitude of the temple.”

“Do you hear them?” Gendry asked. 

“I can, but I chose not to. I have only entered the circle once, when I was a very young King.” Karris said. “I was only answered by the old one, the first spirit, and he told me not to return. The spirits are old. They are creatures of the past, and while their stories are filled with wisdom, they are stuck in the past. To be a King, you have to make your own path. To rely on the spirits to lead the Isle, it will hold us back. If I made any mistakes in my rule, they were my own, not the work of men long dead.”

“Good. I’ve never put much trust in visions or prophecies myself,” Gendry said, “but I have seen the horrors that men are willing to commit because some god told them to.”

“The spirits are wise, but they are not gods. They are only men and as such one must question both their word and the intent behind it.”

“They should question gods, too.” Gendry said bitterly.

“Do you have no love for your gods, Gendry?” Karris asked. 

“I have no gods of my own.” Gendry said. “I grew up surrounded by the Seven, and I have never been given any reason to believe that they are real or hold any power. The Faith of the Seven is a lie that lends power to men, as far as I am concerned. Later, I met worshippers of a red god, a Lord of Light, they called him. Now that one held power, that cannot be argued, but that fucker has the cruelest, maddest priests that do his bidding. That god deals in blood and death and gives power to whoever is willing to kill for it, and that is no god worth following. Arya’s family are from the North, so they worship some old gods, and those are more like your spirits than anything else, I think, and they care not for me. There are no gods I've ever met with any real power that haven’t been corrupted by it. We’re better off on our own.”

“Perhaps we are.” Karris said. “At least then we are free, belonging only to ourselves. You do not trust easily, do you, Gendry?” Gendry laughed.

“I’d be stupid to,” he replied. “Arya was the first person I ever trusted that didn’t make me regret it.” Karris nodded. 

“You love her.” Karris said. It wasn’t a question. “I do, too. So many do. That is Arya’s way, she makes friends and allies out of anyone. No one stays a stranger to her for long.”

“Her brother told me that when she was really little, they called her ‘underfoot’ because she was always running around the servants and the smiths, in the kitchen and the stables, making the whole castle her friend whether they had time for her or not.” Karris smiled broadly

“Thank you for telling me that, Gendry. I love that girl, but much of her life is a mystery to me even now.” Karris said, “That does not surprise me at all. Everyone who meets her must love her at least a little. Arya inspires so much love in people but is so cautious with her own. To love her truly makes us be better men in the quest to be what she needs, to be worthy of her. But, I think to be loved by her in return will not feel like a blessing. It will be a heavy burden. She will always have healing to do, and on her worst days she will push away and try to run, but they must not let her. She will fall into herself, return to no one, and the one she loves will have to remind her who she is when she cannot remember for herself. Her love will be a challenge few men can overcome. There is a storm in her, and her beloved will be as a ship adrift in it. The waters will be fierce, both beautiful and terrible. Brave the storm and the adventure will be unmatched.”

“I’ve done some sailing, recently,” Gendry said, picking at a piece of grass between his fingers, “And I’ve found that I enjoy the stormy nights just as much as the calm ones. One gives you the ability to appreciate the beauty of the other.” Karris nodded, and Gendry felt as though he had said the right thing for once. 

They both looked at her, then, arguing silently into the wind, her brows twisted and her face pinched in rage.

“Is she fighting them?” Gendry asked. 

“She was lied to, last time. I don’t think she is too pleased about that.”

“Good thing they’re dead.” Gendry said. “Since she can’t kill them over again.” 

\---

“ _ Hello, dead girl, _ ” a familiar voice echoed through Arya’s head as soon as she crossed over into the circle. The voice was raspy, pained, and it thundered in her mind, clearer than her own thoughts had ever been.

“I heard some interesting things about you.” Arya said. “I heard you’re not the spirit I should seek.”

“ _ Does the dead girl turn her back on me? _ ”

“A girl is not- I am not dead.” Arya said. “You are.”

“ _ Are we not the same, dead girl? _ ”

“Not yet.”

“ _ Soon enough _ .” The voice hissed. “ _ Ask your questions, dead girl _ .”

“When does it end?”

“ _ When everyone is dead _ .”

“The enemy,” Arya started, already fearful of the answer, “or everyone?”

“ _ EVERYONE IS MY ENEMY. _ ” the voice boomed. “ _ Everyone is guilty, everyone must die, isn’t that what the dead girl says? Valar Morghulis. All men must die _ .”

“Not by my hand.” Arya said firmly, her fists balled in her lap. The voice scoffed at her.

“ _ Weakness. _ ”

“You are weak.” Arya argued back. “You couldn’t even live. Dying is easy. You took the easy path.”

“ _ You were more than happy to take my path the last time you were here, dead girl _ .”

“I am not you, and I am not dead. I am alive, and I will choose to live.”

“ _ Soft. What is the point of you? Are you a weapon or just a weak little girl? Call for the pretty one, dead girl, beg her for love and pretty things if that is all you are good for. _ ”

“I never wanted to be a weapon!” Arya yelled into the wind. “I never wanted any of it! I never wanted this!”

“ _ You do not get to choose, foolish child. Your family was taken from you and your fate was sealed. You are the weapon of vengeance, and you will be cast aside once the blood is repaid _ .”

“Not all of them.” Arya said. “My sister and two brothers live. My oldest friend lives. I have found a new family.”

“ _ Betrayal. You forget the stolen lives. You betray them _ .”

“I honor them! My father would weep to see me full of hatred. My mother would weep to see me so full of sadness. My brothers would weep for me if I never loved again. Life honors their memory.”

“ _ You are happy to forget _ .”

“I remember their faces, their words, I remember what it feels like to be loved. Do you? Do you remember your family?”

“ _ I remember they were stolen from me _ .”

“But do you remember them? Do you fight for them or because there is emptiness in you that you don’t know how to fill?”

“ _ I fight- _ ” 

“You are a liar. You don’t care about your family, or vengeance. You don’t even know your family. You fight because you are hollow. You are filled with rage and you fight because you have nothing else. You are nothing. You’re not a person, you are a beast driven mad. Spirit of nothing. Spirit of lies.”

“ _ Weak little dead girl. _ ” The voice spat.

“Fuck you. I’m going home to my family. Have fun being dead and alone for a thousand more years.” Arya spat back, standing to leave, the last words of Ramithya eaten by the wind as she crossed over the threshold.

\---

“Fucking bitch!” Arya yelled over her shoulder, causing Gendry and Karris to jump.

“Have a nice chat?” Karris asked.

“You were right.” Arya said, slamming herself onto the ground next to them. Karris nodded. “I’m never setting foot in that circle again. She’s the only one that talks to me and I have no more use for her lies.”

“The ones who talk are not always the ones with the answers we need, Arya. I do not know why some spirits come and others stay silent. No one will ever understand them and only fools seek to.”

“Could I try?” Gendry asked. “I just want to see what happens.” He just wanted to know who would answer, if anyone would answer.

“I don’t know why you’d want to talk to any of them, but good luck.” Arya said. 

“Remember-” Karris started.

“I know. They lie.” Gendry interrupted

\---

As Gendry stepped over the threshold and entered the circle, he heard the sounds of a thousand voices crying out on the wind, echoing louder than bells in his head. He clutched his head, for it suddenly felt too full, too loud, he nearly fell to his knees but stumbled forward to reach where he had seen Arya kneeling before. The voices were coming into focus, now. They were old and young and male and female and kind and cruel, all at once, talking over one another. Their voices combined, their words mixed, Gendry could make out nothing but noise. He focused on each voice, trying to pick them apart, trying to hear their words.

‘ _ He is a smith and he is mine- he is a lover and he is mine- his heart is broken, he is mine- the man is a warrior and he is mine- the man is an orphan and mine to guide- you have no claim on him, he is of King’s blood- he is full of rage! Leave him to me!- he is a stranger-no, a smith- no, a knight- he is lost, let me guide him- _ ”

“I belong to no one.” Gendry said, and the voiced bellowing quieted. “I will take whoever’s guidance is offered to me, but I am my own.”

“ _ YOU ASK AND WE ANSWER,”  _ The voices answered together, then started talking over each other once again to name him, _ “Smith. Warrior. Lover. Prince. Orphan. Wanderer. _ ” Gendry suddenly did not know what to ask. He had just wanted to know if the dead would answer him, and now that he had their counsel, all his questions left him. He thought for a moment.

“Can people change?” He asked, finally. 

“ _ People change- most do not- but they can- why should they?- Every day changes men- only pain can change them- hope is what changes- love changes us all _ ” The voices murmured together

_ “a broken man can love again and a broken man can heal”  _ A single voice rang clear above all the others. “ _ Give him a reason and a dead man may live.”  _ Gendry nodded

“Will it ever be enough?” he asked “All my life I have known war and pain, and when I could I tried to make it better. Will my people ever know peace?” 

There came no answer, only a flash of white light behind his eyes, too bright to look at, forcing Gendry to shut his eyes. When he opened them, Gendry was kneeling at the edge of the forest, back in Westeros, somewhere he knew. It took him a moment to recognize it, but it was the inn at the crossroads. It seemed older than his memory of it had been, but he hadn’t been there in years. There were new buildings, though, when had those been built? And a garden. The crossroads inn had a garden? The grasses were greener, the paddocks filled, the door painted a bright blue. It seemed much had changed. Just then, out of the door burst three extremely fat young children, running past him and not seeing him. He turned to follow them, see where they went, and saw them along the road, yelling excitedly at gold cloaks that rode up. Gendry felt his stomach clench. Was this now? Were these Brienne’s men, or was he seeing a memory of Lannister men come to slaughter these children? Gendry almost looked away, but the oldest child laughed. Gendry looked closer, and all the children were smiling, unafraid of the guards with their gilded cloaks and heavy swords. ‘For your grandad, Willas’ he heard the gold cloak say, but distant like he was underwater. The children rushed past him again, the eldest clutching a letter in his chubby fist. Gendry followed them into the inn. It was cleaner than Gendry had seen it last, none of the chairs were broken, it was near full of people, and all of them were eating and drinking, laughing among themselves. The boys pushed past the barmaid, into the kitchen. ‘Grandad! Grandad! Another letter from your friends!’ he heard the boy yell, and entering the kitchen he nearly stopped short. The man the boy called Grandad, he was familiar and so strange as well. It looked like Hot Pie, or his father, more likely. But Hot Pie was an orphan, wasn’t he? Gendry shook his head, unable to understand what he was seeing. “I never get tired of highborn weddings,'' the strange man said, reading the letter, ‘Those two have so many grandchildren I’ll be headed to two a year till I die.’ The children gathered around him, ‘tell us the story again, Grandad.’ they cried, and the old man laughed. ‘When I was a boy, not much older than you-’ 

Another flash of light, brighter and more painful than the last made Gendry cry out, and he pried his eyes open against it to see the walls of King’s Landing on fire again. The Blackwater was full of burning ships, the sounds of destruction rang out loud, the bells and the screams and the breaking of stone mingled into a deafening song of war. He looked around him, in the throne room, now, and saw Jon holding Sansa close to his chest, weeping over her, so pale and still, her gown stained red. Her hand hung limply, shaken by each of Jon’s sobs as blood dripped from her fingertips onto the floor. Jon’s face, he wouldn’t recognize him if it weren’t for the clothes and the girl he held. His face was red as he screamed in agony, twisted in rage and despair, marred by blood and rivers of tears that washed it away. Turning away from the sight he could not bear, he saw the Kings guard, Brienne and Podrick and the rest of them, lined up and run through. He saw ships sinking and homes burning, the smell of death came with every shaking breath he took. 

Another flash of light and he was staring at his own hands again, balled tightly into fists and shaking.

“What was that? Why did you show me this?” Gendry demanded, his voice raw as though he’d been screaming.

“ _ We show not what is, not what will be, but what may be to come _ .” A single voice said, strong but sweet, “ _ There will be peace or death, and the time for deciding is upon you now _ .”

“Me?” Gendry gasped, “I decide?”

“ _ Not only you. _ ” The same voice said.  _ “There are many who hold the power to shape the future, but you bear the knowledge that the others do not. You will lead, you will guide, you will counsel. It is your duty to decide well, judge well and create peace. _ ”

“How do I decide? Please, please tell me what I must do. I cannot bear another war.”

“ _ I cannot tell you what choices you may face, or the right path to take,” t _ he voice said, sounding sorry for it, _ “but remember the words I bring you and let them guide you.” _

“Tell me.”

“ _ There is no shame in forgiveness, to seek it or to grant it on others. Pride is common among your people. Your wars have been for slighted honor, for arrogant fools to claim what was never theirs. Pride is the greatest corruption in your people, and pride will be the death of peace.” _

“Pride.” Gendry though back to all the starts of all the wars he could remember. His father had gone to war because Lyanna Stark did not love him and he was too foolish to see it. The five Kings had all been so prideful, they believed it was their right to ask others to die so they could call themselves King, avenge their families or their honor. Daenerys had truly believed Westeros loved her, craved her return, but she was a stranger to them, as dangerous as all the rest. She set King’s Landing to ruin because Westeros would not love her. Cersei had gone crazed after her walk of atonement, after her bastards were outed and died. These slights on her pride had led to the death of thousands. There had been so many offenses against families, houses, crowns. Every man alive in Westeros had some enemy they wanted to die to appease their wounded pride. All of Westeros was sick with it

“ _ Set aside your own pride and help others see past theirs. The tide of war is quickly rising again, to stop the flood, you must turn to those you despise and make them your allies. Can you do as I ask?” _

“I can.” Gendry swore, praying it was the truth. “Who are you?”

“ _ I am war and I am victory.” _

_ “ _ Why would a war spirit want to avoid war?” Gendry asked. “Shouldn’t you be trying to lead me into some great battle?”

_ “No one detests war more than those who have seen it. I am not the spirit of death and destruction, I am the spirit of warriors, broken men who wish to never again see their greatest day. I protect the warriors. I am the one who speaks for you, stranger, and you will know my name. _ ”

\---

Gendry was unsure what to make of it all, the visions, the warnings, his new duty. He knew he should question the spirit’s words, but it had all felt so real. If it was, if the spirit had spoken truly, it meant that he could do something. He had a mission again. He wished it to be true, just so that he could try. 

Leaving the power of the circle behind him, the absence of voices in Gendry’s head made him feel empty, suddenly alone, and made the world feel very quiet. He stumbled away from the stone pillars and toward the hill where the others should have been waiting for him, but they were not. Confused, he looked around until he saw Arya and Karris standing by the edge of the cliff, their backs to him. 

“What is it?” Gendry asked. Arya spun around and snatched his hand, dragging him to the cliff’s edge. Gendry looked at her face, her mouth pressed into a thin line and eyebrows twisted together as she clutched his hand tightly, her fingertips digging into his flesh painfully. He followed her gaze, and found that the sea underneath them was not empty. Somewhere between the horizon and the isle, there was a small ship, moving quickly through the water. 

“Who is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Arya said, “I don’t know the ship and their sails are plain. But whoever they are they should not be here.”

“They will have to make port in Juqah,” Karris said. “You can get there in five days if you go take the forest route instead of the road.”

“We can make it in three,” Arya said, “but we have to leave now.” Karris nodded, clearly uneasy but not arguing. “We must meet the ship as they dock. There is no way to tell from here who they are or what they want, but I have a bad feeling.”

“I’ll send a raven to Davos,” Gendry said as they mounted their horses, “If we warn him the ship is coming he will detain its crew if we cannot beat them there.” Arya nodded. 

The three of them rode hard back to the little cottage. Gendry penned a quick message to Davos and entrusted it to Karris who swore he would find a bird to send the scroll to Juqah before nightfall. Arya and Gendry rode off with only quick, anxious goodbyes. Merrite packed them with enough food and water for the journey, but they left most of their gear behind to ensure that they could move quickly, not weighed down by pots and tents they would not use. Neither one of them would be able to sleep anyway, so they rode through the night. They ate on horseback, only stopping to sleep a few hours the next night. 

As they slept, wrapped together in their blankets on the hard ground, Gendry could not find sleep despite the depth of his exhaustion. The spirit's warning echoed in his mind ‘ _ There will be peace or death, and the time for deciding is upon you now.’  _ This was the start, Gendry knew. The ship on the horizon was a harbinger of war. Gendry knew that the spirit of warriors had spoken truthfully, he had felt it. He tightened his arms around Arya, who was already sleeping deeply. He could see nothing in the darkness, so he closed his eyes and felt her against him, her soft hair, her strong hands, the warmth of her, her puffs of breath against his chest and the steady pounding of her heart. He knew the day would come when the peace would end, when he would have to be a warrior again. He only wished he’d had more time.

\---

Their hard riding proved successful. They rode into Juqah, haggard and worn but in time. The ship had not yet made port, but Davos, smart man that he was, had sent scouts out along the cliff to send word as it passed them. By their estimations, the ship would land in Juqah by nightfall. 

The King and his men rode into Juqah not long after Gendry and Arya did. Karris had warned his son of the approaching ship as well, and the unexpected visitor to the Isle concerned him enough to come see for himself who was sailing for their shores uninvited. At Tamra’s inn, Arya and Gendry sat with Davos and Keenan in a back room, awaiting the ship with restless apprehension. Keenan was, for the first time, silent. It was Davos that spoke.

“There’s quite a lot of possibilities,” he said. “Could be news from the crown.”

“Not a crownship.” Arya said flatly.

“Could be someone trying to establish an independent trade deal before the crown can get theirs.” he offered.

“The location of the Isle isn’t public knowledge.” Arya replied. “Only those I’ve told and those who’ve been here would know.”

“Fair point.” Davos said, They could be-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gendry interrupted. “Something bad is coming and that ship has something to do with it.” Davos and Keenan looked at him strangely.

“Which spirits did you talk to, Gendry?” Arya asked. “What do you know?”

“Nothing. Only that it’s going to be bad unless we can stop it. Don’t know who or what, only that it's bad.”

“You’ve been to the spirit winds?” Keenan asked, eyes wide. “And they spoke?”

“Yeah. They showed me the future. Maybe. What could happen. One good, one bad. Really bad. They said we have to decide which one we get.”

“You had visions?” Keenan said, disbelief in his voice. “No one has spirit visions. The spirits talk in riddles if they answer at all. They actually showed you the future?”

“I don’t know if it was real,” Gendry admitted, “but they were right either way. Nothing good can come from that ship. We’ve got to be prepared for the worst.” Arya tensed beside him. The worst. Gendry remembered the vision of Jon clutching Sansa’s body, weeping for her, and prayed silently that they weren’t too late.

\---

The waiting was the worst. Hours of it, sitting around, not knowing if the visions of death were already true and knowing there was nothing he could do about it, the waiting nearly drove Gendry mad. He ached for a forge, to feel the burning air on his skin, to pound metal, to do something. Instead, he waited. When the last scout came running into the village, they moved to the docks and armed themselves. The weight of his warhammer in his hand was comforting and terrifying, and Gendry hoped he would not need it tonight. 

The torches burned around them as the ship finally docked, lending their light to the darkness. The ship was silent, no crew moving around the deck, no voices called out orders to each other. It was as if the ship had sailed itself. Arya grabbed a torch and marched forward, her catspaw dagger in her hand. Gendry tried to pull her back, in case it was an ambush, in case arrows came flying out of the black.

“Who goes there?” She called out, shaking him off. 

“Captain!” a voice called out as a ladder was thrown over the side of the ship. “Thank the Gods you’re here!”

“Cyrwyn?” Arya said as he climbed down, “What are you doing here?” She sheathed her dagger as the man rushed her, pulling her into a tight hug. He was followed down the ladder by a young, tired looking woman and a very young girl. It was difficult to tell in the low light of the torches, but Gendry thought Cyrwyn looked older, more weary than the last time he’d seen him.

“I came as quick as I could,” he said, “as soon as I saw, I came. I had to warn you.”

“Warn me? Warn me about what? Cyrwyn, what is going on?” Arya stammered.

“It’s the Greyjoys. They’re going to start a war.”

The young family had made the journey alone and they had left in such a hurry they hadn’t been able to pack properly. They’d been sailing for weeks, sleeping little and eating less, everything they had going to the child. Tamra insisted on feeding them before they were bombarded with questions. They did look close to falling over, and Gendry offered his arm to Cyrwyn’s wife to guide her through the darkness to the inn. She took it gratefully, holding her daughter on her hip. 

Tamra put the group at a table in a private room so they could talk freely. She brought food and water, milk for the young girl. As soon as the platters of food touched the table, Arya spoke.

“Tell me what has happened, Cyrwyn.”

“When I got back to Saltcliffe, I got offered a job building crownships. The pay was good, better than it should have been, but I didn’t think much of it. I thought the crown had given a lucrative contract or something. But it wasn’t right. We weren’t allowed to talk about the work, and the others had nothing good to say about the crown. We were paid so generously, they should’ve been thankful, but they weren't. One day, one of them let the whole plan slip. Old drunk told me all of it. They weren’t making the ships for the King. They were making ships that looked like the King’s so they could attack trade ships and make it look like the crown had done it. They are going to destroy the ships coming back from Vilinos before they make shore, steal their goods and kill their crew. It’ll look like your siblings ordered the attacks, and then the Ironborn can revolt against them. They wouldn’t start a war against them before, they were too strong, but if they were weakened, if their bannermen turned their backs on them… Yara intends to kill you, Arya. She’ll kill you and say your brother and sister did it so the country will hate them and she can have her rebellion.”

“The letter.” Gendry said. Arya nodded sharply once in return. Davos looked at them, raising his eyebrow in question, but Gendry shook his head slightly, silencing, for now, the questions that would come.

“You’re Ironborn, son.” Davos said. “Isn’t Yara Greyjoy your liege Lady?”

“I am loyal only to Arya.” He said firmly, the muscle working in his jaw as it clenched.

“Do not question him.” Arya said. “I trust him, he speaks truly.” 

“Fuck Yara fucking Greyjoy.” His wife bit out, speaking for the first time. Davos nodded, satisfied with that answer. 

“What are we going to do?” Cyrwyn asked.

“You will do nothing.” Arya ordered. “You have done more than enough, more than I could ask. I will handle it, you keep your family safe.” 

“No.” said the young woman.

“Janna, it’s okay-”

“We sailed for weeks to get this message out because we do not want another war. We’ve suffered because of the Greyjoys and their rebellions since I was a babe. If there’s something that can be done, Cyrwyn and I will do it. We are not going to hide when there’s fighting to do. We won’t. We joined this fight when we crossed Yara Greyjoy, we will see it finished.”

“Fine,” Arya said, “You’re right. It is your choice. We need a plan, and I will need the night to make it. First, I need more information. Does Yara know that you’ve come here?”

“She has no reason to suspect anything. She does not know me. A stranger who worked building her secret ships is gone from Saltcliffe, run off with a local girl. A ship is missing from Pyke. She has no reason to think these are even connected. The Ironborn are always breaking promises and stealing shit.” he smiled bitterly. “For once our reputation for dishonor will be of service to us.”

“And no one knows that you and I know each other?” Arya asked.

“No one.” 

“Good. We know her plan and she has no reason to change it. This gives us an advantage that we desperately need.” Arya was thinking deeply, but her eyes were beginning to droop, exhaustion creeping onto her. It was nearly the hour of the wolf, and the candles had burned low, pooling wax at their bases. “Everyone get rest,” she ordered. “I will have a plan by morning.” Davos and Keenan nodded, taking their leave. Tamra showed Cyrwyn and Janna to a room, Cyrwyn carrying his sleeping girl in his arms. Gendry watched them walk away, their faces gaunt but eyes fierce, beaten down but ready to fight back. He only hoped to find that same strength.

“What are we going to do?” Gendry whispered once they were alone. Arya pressed her forehead into his chest.

“Try to stop a war.” she replied, her voice tight, on the verge of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their time in Vilinos got cut short, back to work they go. I makes me sad that they got just a glimpse of peace and happiness before all this shit happened. Maybe they'll be back one day.
> 
> Also: I write 2 chapters ahead of release so I have time to mull them over and edit. I just finished chapter 15 today, which means I am OFFICIALLY 3/4 done with this work. I like- I don't know what I'll do with myself once this is over. Every spare moment has been writing and planning and I have nothing planned after this. What am I gonna DOOOO?! (help me)
> 
> @hunting-ataraxia on tumblr


	14. Long Live Queen Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read end notes.

Arya did not come to bed. Gendry waited for her, waited to feel her weight sink into the featherbed beside him, to feel her close to him, but he never did. He awoke without her, and found her side of the bed was still neat. This did not surprise him, but he was concerned just the same. Dawn was starting, the sun lightening the sky but not yet risen. The rest would wake soon enough, waiting to hear Arya’s plan. Waiting to see what their part in it would be. 

She had stayed up all night, sending ravens to recall the crew, making preparations to set sail, and working on her plan to avoid another war. It felt unfair to be alone with this. She wished to have Sansa or Jon by her side. They would have some idea of what to do, they would come up with something better than what she had. Feeling silly and childish for it, she wanted her father there with her, or her mother. For all of her wishing, though, Arya was alone. Keenan had no knowledge of Westerosi politics or war and would be no help to her in this. Davos was a survivor but not a soldier or a tactician. He could council her but the plan would have to be her own. By the time the sun rose, she had something she thought stood a chance, but she hated every part of it. 

Keenan came down first, and it was clear that he had not slept either. Arya had never seen him so quiet, so deep in thought. It unnerved her slightly to see harsh lines on his tense face as he sat across from her. It made him seem different, older. He looked more like a King than her friend in that moment, and she feared what that meant. She was right to.

“That's your plan?” he asked, gesturing toward the papers. Arya nodded. “What are our chances, here? Can you stop it?”

“I do not know.” Arya said truthfully. “Yara Greyjoy is no fool. She isn’t weak, either.”

“What happens if you cannot stop it?” he asked, “what happens if this uprising becomes a true war?”

“I will do everything I can to prevent it.”

“But what will happen? Surely you know. Tell me truly so I can be prepared, Arya. Please.” Arya sighed and rubbed her forehead. 

“It’ll be complicated. The Iron Islands have a great fleet, none can match their skill on water, but aground they are easily defeated. It would be in their interest to draw us out onto the water and pick off our ships faster than we can build them. They could win. If they become independent, they’ll raid our villages for crops and livestock, they cannot grow enough to sustain themselves on those little rocky islands they’re so proud of. There will never be peace between an independent Iron Islands and the mainland. There can’t be.” Arya explained while Keenan listened carefully. “And if Yara’s plan to gather supporters against the Crowns works, it’ll be a lot worse. They’ll have support from mainlanders, they’ll get food assistance and an army that is functional on land. It would be near impossible to fight on both fronts. It’s the same as Cersei did, allying with Yara’s uncle in the last war.”

“And your people would turn against your siblings so easily?”

“Yes. If they were given reason to. Their rule is still young and unstable. Our rulers have not been trustworthy for a few generations and most will be loyal only to their own best interest. If they think my siblings kinslayers, they would surely turn their backs on them. Yara needs them to look like war hungry, power seeking murderers for her plan to work. If I can prove that she is the aggressor then I can put a stop to her plan before she can gather the support she needs. Then we would just have to put down the rebellion in the Iron Islands. They may even turn against Yara and surrender if her plan fails. There are good men on the Iron Islands, smart men with families. None of them wants to fight a war they cannot win.”

“Do you think you can do this?” he asked. “Can you stop this war?”

“I will try.” Arya promised. “My plan is sound. It will be difficult but I believe it will work.”

“I remember when I became King,” he said sadly, “my father was so strong, I thought him the greatest ruler, the smartest man in the world. He stepped down and left the throne to me when I turned twenty and one, and I was terrified of it. I begged him for more time, more time to learn from him, but he said I was ready. I wasn’t. On my coronation day, my knees were shaking so badly under my robes, I was sweating, I thought I was going to be the doom of our nation, truly. My greatest ambition was to be forgotten by history rather than be cursed for my ineptitude and what would eventually be my many, many failures. I thought if I could make it through my rule without anything terrible happening, that would be success enough for me. I never thought I would be a great King, I hoped not to be a memorable King, and then you happened. The moment your ship touched our shore, you changed my fate. I would be the King that sat the throne when the outsiders came, when the world opened to us. You were going to be my legacy, Arya. I could be the King that led our people to new worlds. I wanted to be that King. I hope I can be, still, but the decisions I make today will shape the future of our Isle for the rest of time. They will be remembered by all future Kings.” Keenan reached across the table to grasp Arya’s hand between his. “I cannot be the King that brought war to our shores. Please, Arya. Please succeed in your mission, because if you fail I will need to close our borders once more. We have not had any war in hundreds of years and we have never known war like yours. We will not survive it. You need to win. You have been a part of my family for years and I love you, I do, but I am a King before I am your friend and I cannot condemn my people to war. You need to win. It may kill me if you do not.” Arya squeezed his hand in return.

“I understand. I will ensure the peace in Westeros, just please give me time. This can still work, Keenan. We can still make this work.”

“I will give you time,” he promised. Keenan handed her a ring from his finger, stamped with his own royal seal. “Seal a letter with this if you are unable to tell me of your victory yourself, this way I know the words are truly yours. Until I see your face or this seal, no ships will be permitted to dock in Vilinos. When there is peace again in Westeros, we will open our borders.” 

“Thank you.” Arya said. “Thank you for not giving up on us.” Keenan sighed. 

“It feels like I am, though.” Keenan admitted, slumping down in his chair. “I have no idea if what I am doing is right, I am fighting myself and I feel sickened by it. Vilish are taught that our neighbors are our kin. There is no greater shame than allowing another to suffer when you can change it. We are all kin on the Isle, and we must care for one another in times of hardship. ‘ _ My hearth is warmer for the company of others, my bread is most nourishing when broken and shared, my wine is sweetest when I drink with another, my life is longer when I am not alone _ .’ That is what we are taught. We have joined a world much larger than we have ever known and the Westerosi are our neighbors, now. It feels wrong to turn our backs when there is suffering.”

“It isn’t wrong.” Arya insisted. “You will be free to help us just as soon as we have helped ourselves. We will be neighbors in peacetime, I promise it, but for now you must protect your own. It is the only way.”

“In a hundred years we will know if we did the right thing.” He said.

“In a hundred years we will know.” Arya agreed. “But for now we know nothing. We can only act and await the judgement of history to fall upon us.”

“May the spirits guide us well and our descendants forgive us.” 

…

The group gathered together to break their fast and hear Arya’s plan. In daylight, Cyrwyn and Janna looked even more haggard than they had the night prior. They were both pale, thinner than they ought to be, and the short amount of sleep they had gotten had done little to lessen the purple rings under their eyes. Gendry wondered when the last time either of them slept through the night had been. His dislike of Cyrwyn was entirely gone, now replaced by respect and concern. They did not look healthy enough to fight. Their daughter, Elin, was mostly unaffected. Her cheeks were still plump and had more color than her parents’. Gendry could only imagine the sacrifices they had made to ensure their child made the harrowing journey unscathed. Despite their condition, Janna and Cyrwyn were both insistent that they would be included in the plan to avert Yara’s war. Looking at Elin, Gendry thought long and hard, but he could not think of a single other Westerosi he knew who had two living parents. Everyone he knew in Westeros was already an orphan or halfway there. What would become of little Elin if Cyrwyn and Janna fell? The child barely reached his knee and was even younger than he had been when his own mother died. She would not remember them.

Arya gave them all tasks, but she did not reveal her plan to them. Gendry knew that meant they would not like it and she would wait until it was too late to argue to tell them what needed done. He resisted the urge to pry, to demand she tell at least him. He trusted her. She had them unload everything but food and water and weapons from the  _ Nymeria _ . They would need to move quickly and they would make no use of finery or comforts. They would clear the lower deck and set up oar stations to assist the sails, increasing their speed. There would be just enough men onboard for there to be a shift on the oars at all hours, but no extra to weigh them down and force them to bring extra rations. Only half the crew would make the journey back to Westeros. Arya had her preferences, the strongest men, the best fighters, but the first to ride into Juqah would have to do. They had no time to wait. The first sailors arrived around midday, and by nightfall they had enough to man the ship. They would set off in the morning, and the rest would be left behind. Arya prayed they would be back for them one day. She asked Keenan to look after them, to explain why she’d abandoned them, to ask their forgiveness.

The last time Arya had set sail for Westeros, there had been a massive celebration the night before, dancing and drums and more alcohol than could ever be considered wise. They’d been lauded as adventurers, as heroes, and they’d been wished well so thoroughly that their dawn departure was delayed until well past midday, and it was not seasickness that had half the crew ill the first day. Tonight there was no such celebration. The crew of doomed men sat in Tamra’s inn, drinking their mead in somber silence. 

Arya found Cyrwyn in the courtyard, sipping his drink and staring out at the sea. 

“So a girl, then?” she asked, sitting down next to him. He smiled.

“Can you believe she’s mine?” he said. “I can’t. She’s too good. How’d a piece of shit like me go and make something like her?”

“You’re not,” Arya scolded, bumping his shoulder with hers. “I think she looks just like you.”

“Oh poor girl.” he laughed. 

“What’s it like, then? Being a parent. Everything you thought it would be?” Cyrwyn smiled again. 

“I don’t know if I count as a parent, yet. I’ve only known the girl a few months and haven't had the chance to do much in the way of parenting, but Gods, I love her,” he said. “I didn’t know it was possible to love someone that much.” He took a long sip of his drink. “I’ve always been a selfish man. I admit that. I always thought of myself first, making sure I was fed and warm and free before anyone else. I loved Janna and I was still selfish enough to run off on her. But Elin. I’d give that girl anything, the shirt from my back, the food from my plate. I’d lay down my life to see her safe without hesitation. Hell, I’m going back to war to give her a chance at a future. That girl changed me.”

“For the better, it seems.” 

“I just want to be good enough for her. To give her what she deserves. That girl matters more than anything else,” he said. “She makes my life matter.” Arya smiled at him.

“I knew you’d be a good father.” she said. “Elin will want for nothing so long as she has you.”

“And I will want for nothing as long as I have her.” He replied, noticing the sad expression she had on her face. Her father was always a tough subject, even now, and he knew she missed him. “But you, though,” he said, changing the subject, “you look good. You and the blacksmith lord, then?” Arya laughed.

“You knew. I told you about me and him.”

“Yeah, but you talked like it was over.”

“I didn’t know If I’d ever see him again.”

“I didn't really see it, back when I met him. He didn’t seem like the type for you. He kind’ve seemed like an idiot.”

“Oh, he is.” Arya laughed. “But he’s good for me, really. He’s been with me through some of the worst parts of my life, we looked out for each other, kept each other safe. We have so much history together. I will never have with another what I have with him. He’s stupid and he’s stubborn but he’s my oldest friend.”

“Oh fuck’s sake then, Captain, just marry the man.” He said, rolling his eyes at her. 

“I just-”

“Oh you nothing.” Cyrwyn interrupted. “You’re so scared of commitment but you’ve already gone and done it. What are you going to do? Are you going to leave him? Are you going to go be with someone else? No. you’re not. You can’t. You love him and you need him in your life for the rest of it. You’ll be with him till you die. On top of all that, what harm will marrying him do?”

“Well now’s hardly the time to think about it.” Arya said.

“Eh, whatever you’ve got to say for your pride, Cap.”

“You’re an ass.”

“You missed me so much, though.” he said smugly, his twisted smirk widening.

“I did.” she admitted, knocking into him with her shoulder again. “You and Janna, then? I like her, she’s got a mouth on her.”

“Aye, always did. When we were kids she worked on her dad’s fishing boat, she gutted and sold what he caught. Grown men were too scared to steal from her, she was so mean. I liked that. She’s everything I’m not. She’s strong and practical. She’s stable, and I was a fickle shit. How we work together I will never know, but we do.”

“She just welcomed you back after you ran off?” Cyrwyn laughed.

“Nah, she ‘bout gelded me. I showed up at her house in the middle of the night, and she just slaps the shit out of me. I deserved it, so I let her. She tells me to fuck off, but I asked about our kid, and she agreed to let me see her. Just once, she said, then I was supposed to get fucked. Elin was sleeping, and I just watched her and bawled my eyes out. I couldn't believe her, her little eyelashes, her little hands, her fat little cheeks. She was so incredible, I couldn’t imagine why I’d been scared before. I saw her and I couldn’t imagine ever being without her again. Janna just laughed at me, told me missing four years was punishment enough. She threw a blanket at me and told me to sleep on the floor. I think it took about a week for her to stop being mad. She’s known me since we were babes, so she knew how stupid I was when she married me. She forgave me. I dunno what I ever did to deserve those two.”

“You always sell yourself so short. You’re a good man and you deserve her.” Arya said. “And after what you’ve done for me, for Westeros, for Vilinos, I’d say you earned yourself about six more kids, just as cute as Elin.” 

“Six?” Cyrwyn hooted. “I don’t know if I could handle six. Maybe one more. And one more after that, then we’ll see.”

…

They sat and talked idly for a while before Arya excused herself, she knew that this would be the last night she slept in a bed in a long time and she intended to make the most of it. She left Cyrwyn sitting on the grassy hill facing the beach, staring into the depth of the blackness that he knew was both sky and sea, although it was too dark to see the difference between them. It wasn’t like he was looking for a view, really, just thinking. 

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” Someone called from behind him. Cyrwyn smiled.

“Shouldn’t you, your grace?” he replied as Keenan sat beside him, clapping him on the shoulder. Keenan handed Cyrwyn a bottle of wine, drinking straight from his own. 

“You look like a corpse.” Keenan said. 

“I feel close enough to it.” 

“I am so glad to have you back here with us,” Keenan said. “Despite everything, it almost feels like old times. You, me, Arya. We’re just missing Keera and a couple bottles of ka-fet.” Cyrwyn laughed.

“Old times are long gone, friend,” he said sadly. 

“I know,” Keenan sighed. “Too much has changed. But I missed you. Both of you.”

“You could have kept things the way they were, you know?” Cyrwyn said. “We never would’ve gone back home if you didn’t ask, we could've stayed forever and nothing would have changed. I’m glad you did ask, believe me, but you certainly got the poorest end of that deal.”

“I don’t regret it.” Keenan said. “I could have let you all stay here, never go home, but then I’d have been a very poor friend to you both. It was selfish of me to ask you to go home, but it would have been even more selfish of me to have you stay. It was the right thing. You’re both happier, now. Even with the war coming.”

“I’m happier, not sure about Arya.”

“She is.” Keenan said, not elaborating on it.

“You’re sure? And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Keenan groaned, laying back into the grass with a thump. "First Keera, then my mother, now you. Why does everyone think I’m incapable of setting my feelings aside and being happy for her?”

“Because that’s a hard fucking thing to do, Keenan!” Cyrwyn said. “Most men would say impossible.”

“I am happy for her. I was never as in love with her as people thought I was. I just… we were friends and I loved her, and I thought it would make a good story is all. I’m a romantic, but I’m not hopeless.”

“That’s true.” Cyrwyn said, sipping his wine. “Would’ve been a good story.”

“The lost princess and the blacksmith prince is a good story, too.” Keenan said softly. “And she smiles, now.”

“She’s always smiled.”

“Not like that she didn’t.” Keenan said, turning to look at Cyrwyn. “She’s happier. She’s better. And now all of this…” Keenan waved his hands in the air frantically, “...Shit. All this shit is happening just to ruin it all.”

“Greyjoy isn’t as tough as she thinks she is.” Cyrwyn said. “Arya’s tougher, we’ll win out.”

“What if you don’t?” Keenan asked, his voice slurred with drink and tight with emotion. “What if she dies because I made her go back?"

“You can’t worry about shit that won’t happen.” 

“It might.” Keenan said, rubbing his eyes. “It might and it’s my fault.” 

“You’re wrong. Greyjoy’s got a chip on her shoulder bigger than Dorne, she would have done this eventually, one way or another. It was only a matter of time, really.” 

“I hate this.” Keenan said. “I hate that I can’t protect anyone without hurting someone else.”

“No one can protect anyone. Shit happens, you fight or you die, but at least we have each other.”

“You Westerosi make me sad. Every time you open your mouth, depressing nonsense comes pouring out of it.” 

“It’s the truth,” Cyrwyn laughed. “Even if we don’t win, we’ll take Greyjoy out with us and there’ll be peace until another rises up from the seventh hell to take it from us.”

“Blaaaaaagh,” Keenan pretended to vomit. “Behold! There upon the ground! Sadness!” he said, gesturing to the grass in front of him. Cyrwyn laughed louder until he could hardly breathe.

“I cannot help myself. If you’re a romance, I’m a tragedy, my friend.” he said breathlessly once he could manage to speak.

“Both good stories.” Keenan said. “And aren’t all romances tragedies in the end?”

“Oof! Who’s being depressing now?” They laughed for a moment, then fell quiet, sitting with the sounds of the sea for a moment, neither one of them speaking.

“Is Baratheon a good man?” Keenan asked, breaking the silence. Cyrwyn started and looked over at him. 

“Aren’t he and Keera pretty close? What did she tell you?” Keenan shook his head.

“I want to know what you think.”

“Dunno to be honest. Only met him a handful of times. But Arya’s known him since she was small. If he was a wanker, she’d know.” Keenan nodded.

“Is he a brave man?”

“Probably. From what I’ve heard about him and the last war, he all but won it for us. Forged half the weapons for all three armies himself, fought on the front, lived through the night. That takes some balls.” Keenan sat silent for a moment, then rose ungracefully to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Cyrwyn asked.

“To ask someone a favor.” Keenan replied. He stopped and turned to look back at Cyrwyn. “You… you did good. With the wife and the kid. You did a good job.” Cyrwyn smiled broadly.

“I know.” There was a great sadness hidden in his words, as he knew he would soon leave them again. Cyrwyn stayed, staring at the sea until the sun lightened the sky over it. It stretched so far, much too far.

…

The night drew on, painfully slowly. If only the hours would pass, if only the sun would rise so they could leave quicker. Gendry felt anxious, like every moment they waited was another moment closer to the death and destruction in his vision. He gripped his cup tightly, bouncing his leg and frowning hard until his jaw ached from clenching it and his forehead burned from scowling for too long. He knew there was nothing he could do but wait, but the waiting was killing him. Gendry was sitting by himself in the corner, just trying to make it through a cup of ale without anyone talking to him, but it seemed that everyone intended to pull him from his thoughts. Tamra came first, which Gendry truly didn’t mind. She was nice, and she was just trying to distract him. It wasn’t her fault he’d rather wallow in his misery. She brought him food and stayed to make sure he ate some of it, which he did even though he wasn’t hungry. It helped.

Davos came after. He brought another cup of ale with him, so Gendry didn’t grumble too much as he sat. Gendry could never bring himself to curse Davos’s company. Even when he was being a surly git, wanting the whole world to fuck off, Davos was welcome. His questions were not.

“So I just have to ask-” Davos started, interrupted by a pained groan from Gendry, “Don’t. I have to ask. Visions? Really?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Gendry said. 

“I don’t trust visions, son.” Davos said carefully. “I thought we were of one mind on that.”

“You don’t have to trust the visions. Do you trust me?” Davos looked hurt. 

“Of course, but it concerns me to see you dragged into them, believing them. You know as well as I that visions are not the truth.”

“That I do, but the spirits didn’t ask me to do anything I wasn’t going to do anyway. They’re only men, that’s what the old king said. If a living man had come to me the same, given me the same advice, I’d heed him. They were warning me is all.”

“What was the warning?” Davos asked. Gendry sighed.

“That we would have to do things we don’t want to do, work with people we don’t want to. That our pride will be the price we pay if we want peace.”

“Only our pride?” Davos laughed. “Well thanks the gods for that, I thought it would be something valuable.”

“Like what?” 

“Like your life. Like hers.” Davos gestured with his drink toward Arya, chatting with Tamra by the bar. 

“She’s too tough to die.” Gendry said. “She’s proved that enough times.”

“We all die in the end.” Davos said sadly. “Tough or not. Smart or not. Right or not, we all die in the end.”

“She’s going to fix it.” Gendry stated. His voice had a confidence that he did not. 

“Do you know what she’s got planned?” Davos asked, turning back to look at Gendry.

“Not a clue.”

“Hmm. I’d thought maybe she’d tell you. Since you’re…” Davos gestured oddly at Gendry with his hand. Gendry laughed.

“She’ll tell us when it’s too late for us to argue about it. Whatever it is, she knows we won’t like it.”

“But it’ll work?”

“It has to.” Gendry said. “We’ll make it work. What’s the alternative?”

“Death.”

“We’ve faced worse,” Gendry said. “When the others came, we hardly had any plan at all. We didn’t know our enemy, didn’t know what they really wanted or how to kill them. We hoped the numbers would work, but they didn’t. We hoped the dragons would work, but they didn’t. We hoped the crypts would be safe, but they weren’t. You know what worked?”

“Her.” Davos replied.

“Her.” Gendry agreed. “We’ve got her, so we’ll make it out alright. Again.”

“That’s… you two are a constant surprise to me.”

“How is that?”

“I just don’t know how I didn’t see it before. You two aren’t exactly discreet.” Gendry laughed bitterly.

“Don’t get used to that,” he said. “We’ll go back to keeping secrets once we're back in Westeros.”

“Why?” Davos asked.

“Because that’s how it goes.” Gendry said. “We don’t really have a lot of options. If we tell anybody in Westeros, her family, we would have to get married, stay in Storm’s End, have a family. She’d hate that. One day she’d hate me, too. Or we stop, pretend we don’t feel what we feel, nobody ever has to know. I can’t do that, so secrets it is. We keep doing what we’re doing, feeling what we feel, but we keep it between us, just our business so no one else has a say in it. That’s the only way I don’t lose her, so that’s what I’ll do.” Davos sighed.

“There are other options,” he said. “Neither of you are as powerless as you think you are.”

“Look, it's not like I haven’t thought about it, but we’ve got bigger problems than my broken heart right now, Davos. War is coming, my feelings don’t matter.”

“You have a remarkable talent for being miserable, son.” Davos sighed. Gendry glared at him. “It’s bloody true. You had good reason for most of it, granted, but right now you’re sitting in an inn, drinking good ale, the woman you love not thirty feet away, and you are as miserable as the day I met you.”

“Did you hear that part about the war?”

“I heard the part where you said she’ll win.” Davos argued. “So there’s no reason to be such a sour shit about it.”

“I feel it all the time. Even when I should be happy, there’s this cloud over it like it’ll be ripped away or like I don’t deserve it. I don’t know why you saved me Davos, it all went to shit after-” Gendry was cut off by a swift cuff to the ear from Davos. He clutched the side of his head and gaped at him, shocked by both the hit and how much it hurt.

“You cut that shit out.” Davos warned, pointing a finger at Gendry. “Saving you was the best decision I ever made, and I would not be a man worth knowing if I hadn't made it. The world was shit long before and nothing that came after was on you, none of it. You will be happy or so help me son I will hit you again.” Gendry choked out a laugh. “That’s better. Go find the girl and have a moment of peace before we have to go be heroes.” Davos ordered.

“Fine.” Gendry grunted, downing his drink and standing to go find Arya. he got to the middle of the room and scanned, but could not see her anywhere. Gendry wasn’t worried, he knew they were safe, he just assumed she’d gone up to their room. It would be odd to sleep alone again, once they got back. He’d slept alone most of his life, but something about her just felt right. Even on the march to the wall, when she’d been a boy, he’d slept near her to make sure the other recruits didn’t bother her in her sleep. When he found out she was a girl, he’d slept nearer to keep her safe. When it got cold, he moved even closer. When they were separated, it felt strange to sleep alone, like the night was too quiet without her breathing. Now, the heat of her curled against him, the weight of her head on his arm or his chest, the smell of her hair was constant. He hadn’t slept a single night without her since docking in Vilinos and he wasn’t sure he would be able to. A lot of sleepless nights awaited him in Westeros, he thought. 

He was walking out of the main hall toward the stairs when a hand reached out and caught him. He turned, surprised to see the King had followed him. He stepped closer, still grasping Gendry’s arm tightly. Gendry could smell the wine on him, but his eyes were focused, intense. 

“If it doesn’t work,” he whispered, looking around to ensure they were alone, “Get her out.”

“What?” Gendry asked, a little louder. Keenan shushed him.

“If the plan doesn’t work. If the war happens. Get Arya and bring her back here.”

“She wouldn’t come.” Gendry said, dumbfounded. “She wouldn’t run again.”

“That’s why I’m telling you and not her,” Keenan whispered slowly, emphasizing each word. “I remember her after the last war and I never want to see her hurt like that again. Get her, get anyone else you want, just bring them here, they’ll be safe.” Keenan said firmly. “Promise me. I know you love her. Promise me you’ll save her.”

“She’d never forgive me.”

“But she’d live,” Keenan hissed. Gendry’s vision flashed before him, Sansa's corpse, Jon’s despair as he held her, the burning and destruction in King's Landing. The smell of death in the air. Not again.

“I promise,” was all he said, barely a whisper, barely anything. Keenan heard it, though, and nodded curtly. He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared, rejoining the group as though he had never left.

Gendry climbed the stairs, sighing deeply as the door to their room closed behind him. Leaning back into it, he closed his eyes. What had he just sworn? That he would take Arya and hide in Vilinos? She would never agree, he’d have to force her. Who else would he take? Jon? Sansa? Brienne and Davos? Would they abandon their people for their own safety? Could they live with that? Could he? They had to win, because Gendry did not know what he would do if the time came to keep the promise he had just made. 

He opened his eyes and saw Arya’s sleeping form under the blankets, breathing deeply. He knelt down by her side of the bed, watching her as she slept. He’d always seen the resemblance between her and Jon. They had the same eyes, same hair, but as she slept he saw Sansa in her, too. Her skin was soft and paler in the moonlight, her features softer without the tension usually held in her jaw and her brow. He reached out before he could think to stop himself and tucked a fallen piece of her hair behind her ear. She didn’t shift. She’d always slept like the dead. He stared at her for so long, it felt like hours. He made sure he would remember her exactly like this, no matter what happened in the morning, or after. He crawled into the small strip of bed next to her, facing her. He quickly fell asleep with his hand cupping her face, tracing the sharp lines of her cheekbone with his thumb. ‘ _ Let dawn come and bring its horrors _ ,’ he thought. This night held no nightmares for him. Tonight he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to need some help with this chapter. I had a very specific intention with it and I need to ensure that it reads the same way I wrote it. Please talk to me about these characters, the decisions they make, how you feel about them. 
> 
> I know a hundred people will read the same thing and interpret it a hundred different ways, but if the way I wanted these people to come across is not how the majority of people interpret them, I may have to do revisions and re-release this chapter. Cyrwyn and Keenan especially are my original characters, so any ideas you guys have about them are pulled from my writing. I need them to be the same way on the page and in my mind. Please comment or message me on Tumblr, I'd really appreciate the feedback on this one. 
> 
> @hunting-ataraxia on tumblr


	15. Bloody Hands

It was not yet dawn when the  _ Nymeria _ left Vilinos. None had truly slept, not for more than a few hours. The drink had worn off long before, leaving behind it only an uneasy focus and stark acceptance of their fate. The men loaded onto the boat and were divided into shifts for the oars. There would be three, and one team would row while the others slept and ate and rested. Gendry was on the first shift, and he was glad of it. He was done with waiting. 

Gendry was worth two men. Every other bench had two men seated on it, but not his. The oar he manned was his alone and he rowed with such fervor that the others based their pace on him, struggling to keep up. As the ache of exhaustion slowed the others, he persisted. As blisters formed and burst, staining the wooden oar with blood and sweat, Gendry persisted. His eyes forward, focused but looking at nothing, Gendry worked at a punishing pace. Any time his body begged for mercy he just thought about the vision of war, the death of Sansa and Jon’s agony, and he kept on rowing. He’d done this before, not as fast but just as desperate. If rowing was what he could do to save the world, Gods above, he would row. 

Gendry was so deeply hypnotized by the rhythm of the rowing that the man relieving him had to shake him to break him out of it. He winced as he released his tight grip on the oar, the wood stuck to the new flesh exposed under the blisters that had torn open hours earlier. Gendry handed it over, the other man’s eyes grew wide at the sight of it, dried blood caked along the shaft, the skin that was ripped from his hands still clung to the wood. Gendry shrugged, offering a silent apology. Gendry stood for the first time since the ship hit open water and, to his great surprise, barely stumbled. He found his footing within a few steps and went to follow the rest of the men up to the galley where they would eat. Gendry ate his ration in silence. None of the other men spoke either, just staring off in bleary-eyed exhaustion. His stomach full, Gendry returned to his quarters in the lower deck. They were changed from the first journey, the bed replaced by a light cot, his belongings diminished to only what was needed. He’d packed heavily when he’d set off for King’s Landing and brought all of his things with him on the trip, not wanting to leave them in King’s Landing for someone to have to look after. Now two trunks of his clothes and his books sat in a storeroom in Tamra’s inn, along with crates of Arya’s books and treasures. He had kept his warhammer and his armour close at hand, though, knowing that the day to use them would be quickly upon him. He hoped he could go back and get those crates one day, on his own terms. If not, the trunks would be uncovered years from now, rare relics from an almost-era. Would they be kept in the museums in the Eastern district of Raiyun? His boots and leathers and books preserved so that future generations of Vilish scholars could consider the strangers across the sea, the barbarian warlords they had narrowly avoided? It was a strange thought. 

Gendry had grown up in found clothing, each piece made for another a little bit leaner or wider than he, each piece a bit too short or too long. Despite this, he had not taken joy in new clothes, tailored to him and perfectly sewn. The collars felt too constricting if they fell at his neck rather than his chest, the sleeves felt too tight around his biceps having been measured just so. The old and worn scavenged clothing had eventually stretched or shrank, molding to his body over the years. How strange it was then, that the things made for him felt so wrong while he felt at home in a stranger's garb? His armor had been the same, found mismatched pieces of differing color and style, all low quality and dented. He was proud of this armor, though. He’d forged it himself, every piece, and for once it did not feel strange. It fit him perfectly and felt like a second skin. It was comfortable and forgiving where needed. Yet untested, the armor gleamed in the candlelight, its mirror shine undisturbed by scuffs or dents. It had taken the better part of two years to forge it all, finding the time between ruling and learning how to. He’d started with the breastplate and had to restart it twice after he’d pounded it beyond recognition, beyond use. That scrap metal was horseshoes now, he thought. Horseshoes or hinges, whatever Artan had chosen to do with the hunk of ruined steel he hadn’t cared to know. The third time he went to forge his breastplate, the anger that overwhelmed him had dulled to the point where he could control it, form the metal instead of rage against it with his hammer. This suit of armor held every emotion he felt in the darkest days of Storm’s End, when he was most hurt and most confused and most alone. This armor was built on pain and forged in a fire of rage. This armor was sleepless nights and the memories that haunted them. It was the act of making the armor that started to bring the light back. Funny, that making armor would help him tear down that same armor which he wore over his heart and his mind. He considered making another bull’s head helm once he returned to Storm’s End. ‘ _ If _ ’ he reminded himself. ‘ _ If I return. _ ’

\---

The first week at sea passed much the same as this first day, sleeping, eating cold, unsatisfying rations, thinking and dreading. And rowing, always rowing. Gendry grew to look forward to his shifts on the oars, because once they ended there was nothing to do but sleep a few hours and wait for the next one, his mind tormenting him with visions. What a terrible thing, to be in such haste and waiting all at once. Each time he sat behind the oar he would get lost in the work, the hours passing as minutes. By the end of it his body would beg for food and rest, the skin on his hands never got a chance to reform. The scabs, barely formed, were rubbed and torn away anew each day. The first grasp of the oar was always painful, but the pain hummed as he worked, giving him something to focus on. His knuckles popped and his tendons groaned each time he released the oar to hand it over to the man who relieved him, Waenan, the man’s name was. As he slept, the muscles wrapped around the bones of his hand ached. 

The sea was always the same flat expanse of blue every time he went above deck, so Gendry had no means of knowing how far they’d gone, how much further to go, how much he had helped, if at all. His days and his efforts were measured only by the blood off his hands. Arya, Cyrwyn, and Davos were the only three crew stationed on the top deck, two of them working sails and steering in shifts while the third slept. Arya worked while Gendry worked and slept while he slept, although she slept far less, taking two shifts above deck for his one on the oars. Sometimes she would come to bed after he’d already fallen asleep and would leave before he woke. He would smell her and have a vague dreamlike memory of her in his arms and he would know she had been there. Somehow, on a ship with fewer than forty men, he missed her. Alas, there was work to be done, duties to which they all were bound that were of more importance than he. 

It was a surprise to him, then, that well into the second week, Arya slipped into the room, pulling Gendry out of his thoughts. He sat up on the cot, moving forward until he was on the edge of it, and he waited for her to speak first. She didn’t. She held his gaze and brought her hands out from behind her back, holding white rags and a water skin in a small bowl. She walked toward him, kneeling on the floor between his legs and leaned her face against his thigh. She closed her eyes and sat there a moment, and Gendry felt the warmth of her cheek on his leg through his breeches. She looked tired. He reached out and, unable to open his hands for the stiffness and pain, stroked her cheek gently with the back of his fist. 

She opened her eyes, then, and caught his wrist, stopping him. Sitting up more, she grasped his hand and slowly uncurled his fingers until his palm was open to her. He winced as the skin of his ruined hands stretched, but Arya moved slowly. She laid a kiss to the middle of his palm, the seasalt from her lips burned like wildfire. He brought a breath sharply in through his teeth but stretched his fingers out more. Arya pressed her lips to each of his fingertips then placed the bowl between Gendry’’s thighs, gently nudging them closed enough to hold it. She poured water over his palm and he nearly cried out at the pain, but bit down on his cheek instead. She took a clean rag and dabbed as gingerly as she could at the raw flesh, her eyebrows twisted together as she scanned his face for pain. Gendry focused on her fingers, the way they held the back of his hand up, the warmth and the softness of them. So long as he focused on that, the pain was not so bad. 

Once the dried blood was removed, Arya poured water over his hand again, the last of the blood running off, leaving the palm clean despite how red and ugly it was. Gendry was uncomfortably reminded of the look of a skinned rabbit when he looked at his own hands, feeling slightly sick for the first time on this voyage. Arya began to wrap his hand in white gossamer, beginning at the fingers. She wrapped each one individually, tightly, before moving onto the palm. This she wrapped more loosely, although the fine fabric still felt like flame against his skin. She wrapped several layers around his hands before placing a thick piece of leather at the base of his fingers, where his callouses should have been. She wrapped another layer of fabric to secure it, tying it all off with a sturdy knot at the back of his wrist. She held her hand out in expectation and he gave her his still ruined hand. She repeated the process, the kisses, the washing, the wrapping. Gendry watched her as she did, this time barely feeling the stinging pain. She had a small bit of wet blood on her bottom lip, he fought the urge to wipe it off with his thumb. When she finished, she held both his hands in hers, admiring her own work. 

“There are other men whose hands are worse off than mine, m’lady.” he said, his voice gravelly from disuse. 

“The other men,” Arya said softly, “Have been coming and getting their hands wrapped by Davos and me for near a fortnight, now. I should have known you’d be stubborn enough that I’d have to come to you.” Gendry smiled. “Should've come sooner.”

“I’m glad you came.” he said, cupping her face in his bandaged hands, managing not to wince. He placed a kiss to her hairline, holding it there for a moment, and felt her shake under his lips. Pulling back, he saw a tear stream down her face, a tremble in her chin. He wiped her cheek, the tears soaking into the bandages. “What is it?” he asked.

.”The world knows about Vilinos, Gendry. I told them,” she said shakily. “What is to stop anyone from sailing there and laying their cities to siege? Even if we win now, there are others, there will be others. They were safe and I brought them into a world of chaos. They aren’t warriors, they aren’t prepared. Any Vilinosi that dies, now, on foreign land or by a foreigner’s hand, their deaths are mine.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Arya insisted. “This cannot end well for them. No matter what comes of this, the Vili will be worse off for their charity to me. And Westeros will be worse off for war and winter come again, and at the same time, no less. Why does nothing ever get better, Gendry? When does it stop?” Gendry kissed the side of her face and drew her up until she was curled in his lap, encircled tightly in his arms.

“Do you know what I saw in the spirit winds?” Gendry asked, his voice muffled by her hair.

“War.” Arya answered.

“Yes, but what else?” He felt Arya shrug in his arms.

“Peace.” he said firmly. “I saw both, so both must be possible.”

“The spirits lie.” Arya groaned. 

“Not about this. They didn’t lie about this. We just have to keep moving forward. Maybe it won't be perfect, the future may not be free of strife or pain but what awaits us will be  _ new _ pain, different than that we’ve had before. Maybe better, maybe worse, maybe with more happiness between the darker parts, but we have to keep moving forward. Moving is what gives us hope.”

“Hope for what?” 

“That one day we’ll find a pain we can live with. Or someone to share it with. Or something to make it worth it. There will be no end to it, only rest. I was better rested for this war than I was for the last. Perhaps that is progress.”

“I’m tired,” She said. Gendry pulled her tighter.

“I know. I am, too.”

“Tell me about after,” she said. “What will we do after?”

‘ _ We _ ’ he thought. ‘ _ She said we _ .’

“Go back to Vilinos,” he said aloud, “get Elin and Janna and the rest of the crew. Finish what we went there to do. Travel, maybe. The Stormlands is fine with the Steward in charge, I’d like to see Winterfell rebuilt. Or Braavos. Or Volantis, maybe. The ruins of Valyria. Maybe Old Town.” Arya giggled. 

“Old Town. How exotic.” 

“Well I haven’t been, have I? That makes it exotic.”

“Maybe so. I’d like to go to the Citadel.”

“They don’t take girls.” he said.

“Never stopped me before. Won’t now.” 

“Fair.” Gendry grunted as he leaned back, pulling her with him until they both lay out on the cot.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice annoyed but sleepy.

“We’ve both got shifts starting in a few hours. We ought to sleep.” he said. Arya started and pushed against his chest, trying to stand, but he held his arms firmly around her.

“No. No, I've got to check the star charts and find out how far we’ve gone.” 

“Not as far as we will have gone in the morning.” Gendry groaned. “Sleep, Arya, gods. Just sleep.” 

She relented, then, resting her cheek against his chest, her legs strewn across his lap, and it was not long until Gendry heard her breathing change. He followed her into sleep soon after, ignoring the dull pain radiating in his hands as he rubbed her hair.

\---

So it went. Day after day, night after night. Gendry would row, Arya would steer and work the sails and plot their course with the stars. Arya came to him every night and changed the bandages on his hands. He could have done it himself, probably, but he sacrificed an hour of sleep to wait for her to finish her work and do it for him. If it had been anyone else, he would have been too prideful to let them see his blacksmith’s hands without his calluses, weakened and sore. He did not feel an ounce of it for her, though. Let her see his blood and his tears so he might see hers in return. 

Arya tugged a stuck piece of gossamer, wincing in apology as it ripped off from the dried blood that caked it, fresh blood springing up in its place, dripping toward the center of his palm and filling the lines of it like little riverbeds. Gendry didn’t do any more than flinch, he was so used to the pain now it was barely a hum, ever present in the back of his mind. 

“Sorry,” she whispered, dabbing the blood away with a cloth.

“S’okay.” Gendry said, watching how her gentle hands worked. He thought it amazing, the duality in her. Warrior and healer. The thought made him smile.

“What are you laughing about?” She asked.

“Nothin,” he said quickly. “I just like you is all.” Arya laughed harshly without smiling and shook her head.

“Gendry, look at your hands!” she said, “I’ve seen flayed men, this isn't too far off from that. You’re a tough one, I know that, but that’s got to hurt like the seventh hell. You like me after this?”

“You didn’t skin my hands,” he argued, “The oar did that.”

“Whose oar? Whose ship? Whose mission?” she argued back, her voice hardening but her touch remained gentle. 

“Dunno. Some rich girl,” he japed, tilting his head at her.

“You’re hurting yourself,” she said, “because I said to.”

“You’re wrong. We’re all doing our part to save us. Bloody hands or a bloody war, easy choice, really. No one blames you for it except you. It’ll be worth it in the end. Our hands will heal.”

“I hope it’ll be worth it.” Arya muttered.

“Are we going any faster?” Gendry asked. “Are the rowers making a difference?” Arya looked up at him.

“Yes, of course you are. Gendry, we’re moving more than twice as fast as we did the first time. We’ll be in Westeros in a fortnight.”

“Oh.” he said. “How long have we been out here? I can’t really tell anymore.”

“A little over a moon.” Arya said. 

“So…” Gendry started, stopping himself, trying to find the right words. “So shouldn’t we know the plan before we land? To be prepared?” Arya sighed deeply.

“Tomorrow.” she said, that night and the next. 

It took over a week for ‘tomorrow’ to come. When they saw another ship in the water, the first since leaving King’s Landing, Arya called the others into her stateroom. Gone were the bookshelves and the comfortable chairs. Only the maps of the stars and the sea remained, pinned to the ground with short throwing blades. Gendry stood near Cyrwyn as Arya paced through the maze of maps along the floor. They waited for Arya to speak, but she didn’t. The silence hung stiffly in the air until Davos burst through the door to break it.

“And?” Arya asked.

“An Ironborn ship, Captain.” He said. “Small and quick, and they set off North as soon as they spotted us.”

“An ironborn ship shouldn’t be this far South.” Cyrwyn said, confused. 

“We were expected to land in Old Town on our return, that was a scout ship.” Arya stated. “Greyjoy will know we have returned and will intercept us in a few days.”

“Is that part of the plan?” Gendry asked.

“Yes.” Arya said, looking down at a map and avoiding the eyes of her companions, full of questions and concern.

“Being captured is the plan?” Cyrwyn asked, alarmed. Arya looked up, then.

“No.” she said firmly. “It isn't.”

“Captain…” Davos said slowly, rubbing his forehead, “I feel I’ve been very patient, exceptionally patient, in this matter. There’s Greyjoy ships up our ass, won't you please tell me what the fuck we need to do?”

“It’s simple, really. We just need to die.” She held up both hands as if it could stop the barrage of questions being lobbed at her. “We won’t actually die! Hear me out! We know her plan. She needs the other Lords to believe that Sansa and Bran and Jon have been plotting and, for her plan to work, she’ll make it look like they killed us. If we avoid her, she’ll find another crime to pin on them. If we go public with just rumors, just conspiracy, she can say it isn't true. If we let her  _ think _ she killed us then she’ll move forward with her plan but we’ll have proof that it was her and not them. She needs the support from the other lords and without it her rebellion will fail. We can get her with this, I know we can.”

“How do we trick her into thinking she’s killed us?” Cyrwyn asked.

“We happen to have the Seven Kingdom’s best smuggler on board,” Arya said. “We will set up the  _ Nymeria _ so the wind will sail her right into Greyjoy’s path. She’ll sink her, but we’ll be on the lifeboats.” Cyrwyn’s face dropped.

“Sink her?”

“I know. But it’s the only way.” Arya said. “I wouldn’t do it if there were any other way.”

“Problem, Captain,” Davos said. “The lifeboats won’t carry enough food to get us to King’s Landing, and we cannot get out of Old Town without being spotted.”

“We’re not going to Old Town.”

“Where then?” Arya pulled a blade from the wall and let it fly, hitting the map on the floor. It landed in Dorne.

“We sail for Starfall.”

_ Starfall.  _ Gendry’s shoulders dropped. What was it that War had said? Make allies out of assholes? Well, that wasn’t exactly what she’d said, but that’s what Gendry took away from it. Why Ned fucking Dayne though?

“Why Starfall?” Davos asked, bringing Gendry back to the moment.

“The Lord of Starfall and I knew each other as children. Gendry knew him, too. He’s the decent sort, he’ll give us shelter and cover our exit. He can be trusted to get us and our message to Sansa.” Davos nodded. 

“Starfall it is.”

“Gendry, go relieve the rowers, please.” Arya said, her tone held more request than order. “We’ve been spotted, there’s no more need for swiftness. Tell them to clean their hands and rest well and to gather their things and be ready to leave before morning. We won’t know when the rest of the ships will come for us, we need to be ready when they do.” 

Gendry nodded curtly and made his way to the lowest deck. At least this was news he would be glad to give. The rowers were ecstatic, their work and their wait were finally over. Gendry had expected joy, relief, but not the cheering. Each man clapped his shoulders as they passed him, thanking him as if he had made the decision himself. Gendry took it, as it wasn’t every day one got to give good news, though he didn’t think this counted. They could rest for a time, but soon there would be more dangerous work to be done. But at least it was different work. At least it wasn’t rowing. 

Gendry returned to his quarters and polished his warhammer. It didn’t need it, but it made Gendry feel better to do it.  _ Starfall _ . Of all the places they could turn for aid, why did it have to be the home of that pompous little blonde shit? Surely they could just face Greyjoy head on and avoid the entire thing. Gendry shook his head, remembering what War had said. Perhaps this was his first test. He wasn’t a child anymore. He wasn’t even a bastard anymore. So why did the idea of asking Ned Dayne for aid bother him so? He groaned and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. 

“I am not a proud man,” he chanted to himself through gritted teeth, “I am not a proud man, I am not a-” he was interrupted by laughter.

“You’ve got to tell me what all this is.” Cyrwyn said, gesturing at him from the doorway and still laughing. “We’re not friends, so usually I wouldn’t give a shit, but whatever is happening here is too fucking funny to be left out of the joke. Have you lost your mind, Baratheon?” Gendry glared at him and returned to polishing his warhammer. Maybe he would take the hint. “Is it about the Lord you both knew?” he pestered. “What, did he and Arya-”

“No.” Gendry interrupted, frowning deeper at the amusement in Cyrwyn’s face.

“Then who the fuck is he and why does he make your face do… that?” he asked, pointing. Gendry swatted the finger out of his face, making Cyrwyn laugh again.

“Arya never mentioned Ned Dayne?”

“No.”

“That… that helps actually.” 

“Who in the seventh hell is Ned Dayne? I can ask Arya, but then I’ll have to tell her you’re down here brooding about it.”

“No. Don’t. He’s nobody. We met him when we were travelling with the Brotherhood. He was Lord Beric’s squire.” Recognition flashed across Cyrwyn’s face. “So you’ve heard of Beric then?” Cyrwyn nodded. “Well, Dayne was his squire, and as soon as they found out Arya was a Lady, Dayne was UP. HER. ASS. Always trying to be friends with her, always saying the wrong thing and pissing her off. I didn’t trust him at all, didn’t know who his family was loyal to, if he’d betray her. And he made out like I was jealous.”

“Were you?” Cyrwyn chuckled, taking a swift step backwards when Gendry switched his grip on the warhammer.

“I was suspicious. And right to be so.” Gendry insisted. “But the fucker did make me feel… inadequate. You get how it is, right? To be around Lords and shit?”

“Used to. Now I’m mates with a King and a Princess, so fuck ‘em.” 

“Good on you, but as I was saying, I used to sell armor to these pricks. They always looked down their noses and acted better than, and they weren’t but I was supposed to act like they were or I’d face the consequences.”

“Right.”

“And then I’m free of it. An outlaw, a Knight. And here comes Ned fucking Dayne-”

“That really his middle name?”

“Shut the fuck up. Here he comes, all blonde and pretty and polite, highborn and he’s everything I’m not and it made me feel like shit again. Kid didn’t do anything wrong, but I hated him.”

“Great, well, now I know. Although it was less amusing than I’d hoped.” Cyrwyn said, turning to leave. “You’re going to be alright around him, right?” he asked from the doorway. “You’re not going to insult him and ruin Arya’s plan?”

“I’ll behave.” Gendry swore. “Besides, I’m mates with a Princess.” Cyrwyn snorted.

“Right.  _ Mates. _ ” he scoffed, rolling his eyes as he left. He didn’t latch the door fully behind him, so it swung open a few moments later with the churn of the sea. Gendry grumbled as he got up to close it properly, slamming it a little too hard.

\---

Just as planned, it was the dead of night when the Greyjoy fleet of false crownships was spotted moving swiftly towards them. Silently, the crew loaded into the lifeboats, already stocked and ready. There were four ships, and the men lay down in them as Davos had instructed, shoulder to shoulder, men pressed against their provisions to disguise their silhouette in the dim light. They did not row, barely steered, just drifted away in silence. As the crownships grew closer. The  _ Nymeria _ had her sails open and her helm stuck in place so she sailed herself right into the thick of Greyjoy's fleet. 

Arya crawled to the back of the boat, resting her chin on the edge to watch as the crownships overpowered the  _ Nymeria _ . Shrapnel ripped through her hull, the scene illuminated by the fire that burned her sails, spreading to her mast, to her deck where Gendry had trained, to the stateroom that had been her sanctuary, burning the entirety of her, each room filled with memories as though she were a home. She was. Gendry watched as Cyrwyn crawled to Arya’s side and wrapped his arm around her. It had been their home. Arya’s shoulders shook, though it was barely visible in the darkness. As the last glimpse of the direwolf bow disappeared beneath the waves, Arya and Cyrwyn turned back, their faces streaked with silent tears. They continued to drift, until the distant sounds of cheering faded out. 

It was dawn when they all sat up, stiff from holding their position for so long. The Greyjoy fleet had not given chase, not that they had seen, although there was a chance they could be spotted still. They were adrift in the Summer Sea, but luckily the ocean had favored them and taken them East, toward the mouth of the Torentine. It was time, once more, to row. It was easy, leisurely, almost, to row the lifeboats down the river. The current was moving the wrong direction but was weak, and it took little effort to gain speed even against it. Arya wasn’t completely sure how deep into the Torrentine the castle sat, but she didn’t get a chance to raise the question. Within moments, the castle came into view. Not long after the towers of Starfall were spotted, guards in purple cloaks appeared along the banks of the river, bows drawn. 

“Who goes there?” one of them called out. “State your business.” Arya stood, holding onto Davos’s hand for support as the small boat shifted under her.

“Is Ned Dayne still the Lord of this castle?” She asked.

“Aye, he is.” 

“Fetch him them. He’ll want to hear us.”

“Who shall I say he’s hearing?”

“Tell him it’s Arya Stark.” The guards shuffled, speaking amongst each other too quietly to hear.

“Forgive us, Princess. Make land. We’ll escort you to the castle to speak with the Lord.” They did as they were bid, bringing their boats to the riverbed. A guard offered Arya a hand, but she thrust a sack of their provisions into it and got out on her own. The guard dutifully carried the bag all the way back to the castle. One of the other guards got off from his horse and told Arya it was hers, and she piled the saddle with their heaviest gear, their armor and the weapons not on their person. 

Starfall was a lovely summer castle. Climbing vines on tall towers, flowers and shining clean floors. It seemed exactly the place Ned Dayne would hail from. They were not in the courtyard more than a moment when Ned rushed in. Gendry almost didn’t recognize him. Granted, he’d been just a boy the last time he’d seen him, but he had grown well. He was taller and broader, the softness of his face hardened by age. He was still pretty as a maiden and scrubbed clean, though, his pale blonde hair flopping about obnoxiously as he ran.

“Arya!” he called, then stopped in front of her. “By the Gods! It is you! You look so different, but it’s you!”

“Good to see you, Ned.” she said. “You’re looking well.”

“As are you. Do you want anything? Rooms? A bath or food?” he asked, talking quickly.

“My men will need all of that,” she said. “And I’d beg a maester as well, most of them have suffered injuries to their hands on our journey and they need treatment before they fester.”

“Of course. We will see to it right away. Let’s go to my solar. Although I am thrilled to see you, I have the feeling this is not a social visit.”

“You’re right in that.” Arya said. “I bring a terrible burden to you, Ned, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Don’t be. Any aid I can offer is yours.” Ned said, then he looked up from her, his gaze falling on Gendry. “Gendry!” He said, smiling brightly. Did Ned even know that he had hated him? “I should not be surprised at all that you still travel together, although I was not expecting the Lord Paramount of the East to have the spare time.”

“What we came to say is important, Dayne,” he said. “The solar?”

“Yes, of course.” Ned led them away, and Arya motioned for Davos and Cyrwyn to come, as well, leaving the others in the care of the steward and the Maester. They entered Ned’s solar, clean and bright and full of plants, which Gendry found odd. It wasn’t often that one saw trees in pots in a tower room. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant and gave the impression that one was outdoors. Food was brought in almost immediately and Gendry’s mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten a hot meal since Tamra’s inn and missed the feeling of warmth in his belly greatly. The five of them were seated around a table when Ned, ever the gentlemen, waited for them to begin eating before he spoke. In his waiting, Arya spoke first.

“I fought by Lord Beric at the Battle of Winterfell.” she said. Ned’s head snapped up to meet her gaze. “He fought well in the end.” Ned smiled sadly.

“Thanks for that. I wondered what had happened to him.”

“I saw him.” Gendry said around a bite of bread. “We went beyond the wall to capture a white. It was me and a wildling and the King in the North at the time, the Hound, Beric and Thoros. Thoros died.”

“That’s… That’s unfortunate. Was the mission a success?”

“We caught the thing.” Gendry replied. “Fat lot of good it did us.” He laughed. “You know, it was so funny, that battle. Everyone was there. Beric and Thoros and the Hound and the Red Woman and Brienne of Tarth and every single other person I’d ever met in my life. Jaime fucking Lannister was there. You know who I didn’t see, though?”

“I wanted to be there.” Ned said firmly. “I tried. I marched our men all the way up to the Riverlands, but we couldn’t get past Cersei’s army, there weren’t that many of us. I got stabbed and I had to turn back. Euron Greyjoy was sinking every ship heading North, so I hired some smugglers in Braavos to get food to Winterfell. I did what I could.”

“It’s alright, Ned.” Arya said as Cyrwyn kicked Gendry’s leg under the table. Right. He was meant to behave. “The supplies were greatly needed, thank you for that.”

“Did you know Anguy’s leading the Brotherhood?” Ned said, changing the subject. “He sends me letters sometimes.”

“What’s the use of the Brotherhood, now?” Gendry asked, earning himself another kick. “They fought for the people because the King didn’t. King does now. They fought without banners because there were so many Kings and they were all shit. Got one King, now. So what’s the point?”

“I think they just drink, honestly.”

“Oh, so nothing’s new then.”

“It would appear not.” Ned looked at Gendry’s bandaged hands. “Do you need to see the Maester, Lord Baratheon?” he asked.

“S’alright.” Gendry said. 

“He will after.” Arya said over him. “But first, it’s time we told you why we’re here.”

\---

Ned took the news of impending war fairly well, everything considered. He believed them immediately, asking no further proof than Arya’s word. He also acted quickly, ordering his guard to mobilize, setting up sentries and troops along the Torentine in case Greyjoy had followed them and setting up guards round the perimeter in case retaliation came by land. Arya questioned this, but Ned argued that they had no way of knowing what allies Greyjoy already had. 

“What’ll be your next move?” Ned asked. Their meal had long since been cleared away and the candles burned low around them.

“Yara probably thinks us dead, so she’ll move forward. We’ll have to get to King’s Landing and warn Sansa before that happens. With so many witnesses, more than half of them Ironborn, no one could refute our claims.”

“You cannot go by sea.” Ned said. “The Greyjoy fleet may spot you and finish the job. Yara cannot know that you’re alive before you get to King’s Landing. Have you a disguise planned already?”

“I had intended concealment, not deception. I thought to keep off the main road.”

“That’ll slow you down. I can send a procession to King’s Landing, disguise your men as my own. Greyjoy does not know that I am involved, it would not be connected to you.”

“A procession? Under what pretense?”

“I don’t know,” Ned said, growing frustrated. “Why do people send processions?”

“Weddings, funerals, and the like.”

“Well we’re attempting to avoid funerals, so that won’t do.”

“You could pretend to be attempting to court Sansa.” Gendry offered.

“What?” Arya glared at him. Gendry put his hands up.

“It wouldn’t be suspicious is all I’m saying! Sansa hasn’t been down South in many years, so the timing would make sense, and it would give him a reason to go to King’s Landing and seek an audience with her. It would work.”

“Aye, it would.” Ned said. “Just as a pretense.”

“Fine,” Arya said, “Just as a pretense.”

“Well, that’s decided,” Ned said as he rose. “But we must wait for the morning. Rooms will have been made up for you. Gendry, I’ll see you to the Maester. Arya, if you get me a letter I will have a raven sent to your sister.”

“Thank you, Ned, but this cannot be trusted to a raven. We’ll give the message in person.”

“All right then. Gendry, follow me if you please.” Gendry followed him. Arya’s wrappings had helped, but she was not a Maester. They walked down the dark hallway together in silence, the only sound the click of their shoes on the stone floor. Ned stopped and knocked lightly on a door.

“My apologies for the hour, Maester. I’ve another patient for you.” Ned said as Gendry followed him inside.

“I’ve been expecting you, My Lord,” the Maester replied. Gendry sat on a chair and placed his hands into the waiting grip of the weathered old man. “this wrapping is well done.” The Maester muttered. 

“I’ll pass your compliments on to the Princess.” Gendry said, trying not to wince as the fabric was pulled away, unsticking from the wounds. 

“So,” Ned started, “how have you found Storm’s End? I haven’t been myself but Dondarrion was from the Stormlands so I spent a fair bit of time there. Nice country, but-”

“You don’t have to stay, Ned.” Gendry said. “I thank you for your hospitality but I’m sure you’d rather be in bed.”

“Nonsense. How are you going to find your rooms? Anyway, the Maester’s work should only take but a moment.” 

“Almost done already, My Lord.” The Maester confirmed. Gendry looked down and saw that his hands were already cleaned, the Maester was now applying a calming green salve which dulled the pain.

“Storm’s End is nice.” Gendry said. “I didn’t think I’d like it, but I do. There’s good people there.”

“I’m glad. They’re thriving, too. Our lands border each other, I hear news. We are getting more trade out of the Stormlands than we ever have before. People have retaken their trades and their livelihoods, the roads are safe enough to travel. I must say I was surprised when I heard you were the new Lord of Storm’s End, but you’ve done admirably. That was not a surprise.”

“It wasn’t?” Gendry asked. “It was to me.”

“No. Have you seen yourself smithing? I've seen you, past dinner, past nightfall, reworking the same arrowhead a dozen times because you know you can make it better. And that was as a boy of six and ten. I had no doubt you’d rework the Stormlands until they worked as well.” Gendry considered that. He supposed it was true, but he had never thought about ruling and smithing as being the same.

“Thanks, Ned. That was very kind of you.”

“I never had any doubt you’d make a great Lord.” 

“Finished, My Lord,” the Maester said, releasing Gendry’s hands. The salve had a cool, numbing sensation to it that Gendry found very welcome. 

“Thank you.” Ned and Gendry said at once. 

“Now, Lord Baratheon, If you’ll follow me I’ll show you to your room so we can all get some sleep before tomorrow.” Gendry followed Ned once again through the winding hallways, stopping this time in front of a room several stories up the tower, the lights on and movement inside. “Hmmm.” Ned hummed, “I thought Arya would have gone to bed by now.” Gendry looked up at him, surprised. Ned had only had one room prepared for them. “Oh! Did I misread the situation?” Ned asked at the surprise on his face. “Are you two not-”

“No, we are, but isn’t that a problem? I recall you having a firm sense of propriety.” 

“Propriety.” Ned sighed. “As a young Lord, I was taught about honor by men who had none. As of late I have discovered that their lessons in what is right and proper only served them, to keep them in power and the rest of us in line, particularly the women. I’ve resolved to decide what’s proper for myself, now, what feels right. It feels more proper to let women decide these things for themselves, does it not?”

“It does.” Gendry agreed.

“Then I bid you and Princess Arya goodnight, Lord Baratheon. It has been very good to see you both again.”

“Goodnight, Lord Dayne.” Gendry said, shaking his hand. “It has been a most unexpected joy to see you again, as well.” Ned smirked and walked away, leaving Gendry outside his and Arya’s room. 

“Did I hear that right?” Arya asked as he entered. “Are you two fast friends, now?”

“That may be overstating things,” Gendry replied, stripping down and crawling into bed beside her, “He certainly isn't a child anymore. None of us are. You were right to come here for aid.”

“I know.” she said, curling against him.

\---

A tremendous crashing sound rose up from the courtyard, followed by a great deal of yelling. Arya and Gendry started awake, looking at each other in confusion. Arya grabbed Catspaw from where it sat under her pillow and Gendry ran for the window, eager to see the source of the commotion. He pulled his trousers on, looking out at the chaos erupting below his window. Guards in purple cloaks were running about in the darkness, shouting orders to one another. A pounding came on their door, and Arya opened it, already dressed. Ned stood panting in their doorway, his shirt open and untucked, hair mussed by sleep. 

“Are we under attack?” Arya asked. Ned shook his head.

“No,” he said, “Don’t know what’s happened, came to get you first. Follow me.” Gendry pulled on a shirt as he followed them, near running, down the steps of the tower and into the courtyard below. 

“My Lord!” The captain of the guard called out, “A crownship came down the river! We waited till the river was too narrow to turn and we ambushed it, My Lord! It was as you said, the crew was Ironborn, not the King’s men.”

“Any survivors?” Ned asked.

“No casualties either side,” he answered, “Minor wounds, but we took the crew prisoner. Most were asleep when we took them. We were quiet. We spared the ship, too. In case the papers or belongings onboard would be of use to you. The men should be bringing it to port soon, the rest of the prisoners, too.”

“That’s brilliant work, Captain!” Ned said, clapping the man on the shoulder

“My Lord, Greyjoy was aboard. We’ve got her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do y'all feel about these chapter titles?
> 
> edit: Can we talk about Cyrwyn? I love him so much, he's my favorite OC, but he's such a rude little garbage person!!! I swear it's involuntary, every time I write him he's such a little asshole, especially with Gendry. But he's my asshole and I love him SO MUCH.
> 
> @hunting-ataraxia on tumblr


	16. The Redeemed and the Damned

It changed everything. Yara Greyjoy would not come after them, she would not kill Arya, she would lead no more attacks against them. Yara Greyjoy sat in the highest room in Starfall’s highest tower, raging against the bars and swearing at the guards that held her. Yara Greyjoy could do nothing. Arya watched her through the bars on her cell, sitting where Greyjoy could not see her. She shook the bars, screaming, her face contorted with rage. She was powerless. She was dripping wet, covered in mud, her shackles rattling loudly with each movement.

“There’s no need for this.” Arya said calmly, walking into the torchlight. She wore the blank, expressionless mask she used so often in her previous life. Funny, how easily it slipped back on. “Is the cell not to your liking, My Lady? I must say it is significantly nicer than the black cells. You’ll see. Soon enough.” Yara stopped, breathing heavily and grasping the bars so tightly her knuckles turned white. 

“Are you going to execute me, Stark?” she hissed. 

“If my sister asks it of me.” Arya replied calmly. “Why, Greyjoy? Do you fear death?”

“What is dead may never die.”

“So you Ironborn always say, though it makes no sense.”

“Not to you.”

“Not to anyone that can read.” Arya said, not flinching when Yara slammed a hand against the bars.

“For what crime will you slit my throat?”

“Attempted murder. Treason. We’ll decide what else to charge you with once we’ve searched your ship.”

“Treason? It isn’t treason to rebel against tyrants!” Arya rolled her eyes. 

“Enjoy Lord Dayne’s hospitality, Lady Greyjoy.” Arya said, turning to walk away, “I believe you will enjoy it far more than my Queen Sister’s.” Arya walked away, not bothering to listen to the curses Yara screamed at her back. 

\---

If one must be a prisoner somewhere, Starfall was likely the best place for it to be. There was not a speck of cruelty in Ned Dayne’s nature, and his cells were a reflection of him, clean, spacious, adorned with a bed and other comforts, even books were permitted. Lord Dayne did not fear, as others might, that the pages would be used to slip messages out, for he knew the loyalty of his guard was beyond reproach. They would not be bribed or threatened or blackmailed into aiding the enemy. 

Untested by battle and young, though not as young as he looked, outsiders thought Ned Dayne little more than a boy, naive and unthreatening. They were wrong. Ned was stronger than any of them knew, and his kindness was at the heart of it. If the lowest ranking guard in his garrison was offered money beyond his comprehension to give information on his master, he would not hesitate to refuse and tell his Lord of it. If blackmailed through threat of violence, toward himself or another he loved, the guard would seek the aid of his Lord before betraying him. Such was the trust built in the walls of Starfall. Ned Dayne was loyal to his men, and they returned that loyalty in kind.

A guard brought Yara Greyjoy a pile of her own clothing from her ship, thoroughly searched, of course. She was given blankets, water for washing, more food of higher quality than any other prisoner in the seven kingdoms, but she refused it all. She sat, still wet and filth covered on the cold floor, not ten feet from a warm bed and clean clothes. Whether it was distrust or spite that drove her Ned did not know, but he rested with the knowledge that he had done what he could for her. Let her refuse the comforts offered to her, let her starve with warm bread and meat brought thrice a day. Let her be the cause of her own misery if it appeases her pride. 

It must be known, however, that her comforts were offered to her solely out of respect for her station. Every man pulled from the ship in the dead of night was offered the same, and they held much less enmity toward the House of Dayne. These Ironborn, these men of sea and salt and cold stone, they could not resist the comfort of a bath and the softness of a featherbed, the warmth of fatty meat melting on their tongue. These were comforts they had never known, and to know them under the watch of guards was better than to never know them at all. The Ironborn ate and cleaned themselves and slept well, their wounds seen to by the Maester. They acted more as if they were on vacation in a Dornish city than captives. They were housed far away from Yara Greyjoy and the higher ranking crew members, so they partook in the luxuries freely, unafraid of judgement. As the days passed they grew more comfortable, some played games of dice with their guards through the bars, laughing with them as though they were friends. The guards were kind, but ever vigilant, their mission never slipping from their minds despite their jovial appearance. 

\---

“We’ll get nothing from her.” Ned said as he rubbed his brow, trying to ease the tension out of it. “The men speak freely but they know nothing.”

“How did she know we’d survived the attack on the  _ Nymeria _ ?” Arya asked. Ned shuffled through his pile of papers before answering.

“They thought they’d succeeded, so they stopped to drink to their victory in a town, the townspeople were overheard talking about the lifeboats, which had been seen by fishermen early in the morning. They began to follow after midday, but there was no sign of you left by then and most of her crew was not in fit shape for a raid.”

“That’s what the men said?” Gendry asked. “Not in fit shape?”

“The quote I have here is ‘ _ balls deep in an ale cask _ ’, if you must know.”

“Have they given up the location of the other ships?” Arya interrupted “I counted four attacking the Nymeria but your men only caught one.”

“According to her men, she sent them back to the Iron Islands to await instructions.”

“Why would she send her men back?” Gendry asked.

“Again, based only on what the men have said, she thought it would be a simple mission to catch up to a few lifeboats on the river and slaughter you all. Her men expected to sail right by Starfall, in fact they gave Starfall no thought at all. They were planning on heading further up the river where they thought you had gone. They expected that you would be looking to get as far inland as you could, away from her forces. They would’ve just kept going if we had not ambushed their ship. Who can say how far they would have given chase before she realized she was following a trail that did not exist?”

“They must not have seen it coming at all,” Gendry said. “They didn’t exactly put up much of a fight."

“According to the report from the man who led the raid, the only ones awake were the greener sailors. The fighters and raiders were sleeping off their ill-earned victory drink”.

“Sloppy.” Davos said, eyes glued to the documents they had taken from the ship. “Wouldn’t expect it from her.”

“It wasn’t entirely her fault.” Ned said. “Even after she found out you'd survived she had no reason to know that I was involved. If I wasn’t, if I wasn’t harboring you already and forewarned of her plot, I would have had no reason to look twice at a crownship coming up the river. I shouldn't have even had guards that far out, that part of the river isn't mine, isn't anyone's. They would have been well rested to kill you when they caught up to you in the morning. She could enter any lands with that ship unquestioned and be safe on board. She was just outmaneuvered.”

“She assumed we would be easy prey, all tired and hungry in our little boats, no weapons," Arya said. "She would've been right, but she didn’t account for you.”

“No one ever seems to.” Ned frowned. “Why is that?” Arya laughed.

“Just appreciate the advantage and don’t think too hard on it,” she said. “Is there anything else her men have let slip?” Ned looked over the shift reports from his guards, dozens of pages of conversations, everything they were told or overheard was written down.

“There’s quite an interesting conversation here between two of the men.” Ned said, holding up the report and reading the guard’s neat writing.

“First man: ‘I’d rather stay here than die for some Lady Captain’s revenge.’

Second man: ‘Wasn’t this supposed to be about the islands?’ 

First man: ‘supposed to be, but it’s not. This is revenge, and personal, too. No fight for me. No fight for any of us.’” 

“That is interesting.” Arya said. “We need more. She’s good with discretion, I’ll give her that. We need to know what she hasn’t told her men. Any luck?” she asked, turning to Davos.

“I’ve never been a strong reader,” Davos said, throwing a pile of papers down, “But this is coded. Unless we find a cypher on her ship or break the code ourselves these will be of no use to us.”

“Keep working at it.” Arya ordered, “Have the Maester help you, I’m sure he’s had some training in cyphers. If she’s doing it by memory it cannot be that intricate.”

“Greyjoy’s well travelled, Captain,” Cyrwyn said, “Perhaps she uses another tongue to aid in her encryption.”

“Then you go and help, as well,” she said, “you know the most languages out of us.” Cyrwyn and Davos left, their arms filled with papers, in search of the Maester. Once the door closed behind them, Ayra spoke again. “We need a new tactic of interrogation. A hot meal and a bed will not break her as it has her men.”

“I won’t have torture under my roof.” Ned said flatly.

“Well that wasn’t what I was suggesting, but I am pleased with your faith in me, Dayne.” 

“What are you suggesting?” Arya looked over at Gendry before turning back to Ned.

“If she won’t speak to us, we ought to trick her into thinking she has an ally.” Arya explained.

“How, pray tell, do we do that?” he groaned. “She’ll never trust an of us, and anyone we send in she’ll assume is a spy.”

“I’ll do it, she won’t be too hard to manipulate, but it will take some finesse.”

“She’ll never talk to you and she knows your face,” 

“Aye,” Arya started, “she does know my face, but I have others we can use.” Gendry groaned loudly behind her, and Ned looked confused.

“Oh tell me you aren’t going to do the Jaqen thing.” Gendry pleaded.

“I am absolutely going to do the Jaqen thing.” Arya smiled.

“What is a Jaqen?” Ned asked, truly bewildered now.

“You do not want to know.” Gendry said firmly. 

“I’m doing it. It’ll work!”

“What are we doing?” Ned asked again, looking between the both of them for answers.

“Gendry, catch Ned if he faints, will you?”

“I’m not gonna-” Ned stopped mid sentence when Gendry moved to stand behind him, a grim look on his face. “-okay.”

Arya brought out a pouch from the bag she’d brought into the solar, opening it and laying faces on the table, one by one in a row. Arya thoughtfully considered each face before lifting up one limp, floppy piece of skin and hair, holding it out to them.

“Does this look Ironborn?” she asked. The hair was a mousy brown shade and the skin was pale, and, although that could have been due to it being dead, Ned nodded. He looked back, searching for Gendry’s reaction but found his gaze averted, the muscle in his jaw twitching. Arya turned from them and Ned watched as her form changed in front of his eyes, her hair was no longer shiny and rich, but dull and thinner, shorter than before. She widened and stretched until she was taller and more shapely than Arya had been. When Arya turned back, none of her remained. The girl was plain but nice looking, muddy brown eyes and pale skin, freckles lending an air of charm to an otherwise unremarkable face. Arya had picked this one from the wall of faces because of her plainness, because she would be neither sought out nor turned away. The girl, whatever her name used to be, would have made an incredible spy. 

“Oh!” Ned exclaimed. “What wonderful magic! How is it done?” The girl laughed, quick and light and shy, most unlike Arya. 

“It took quite some time and a lot of suffering to learn, Ned, I’m sorry to say you won’t be face changing in the near future.” Ned approached her and leaned in, looking closely at her. Her eyes crinkled up around the corners as she smiled, the edges of her thin mouth twitched. It was not a mask, but a face upon another.

“That’s magnificent.” he said quietly. “So we will convince her that this girl is her ally?” Arya nodded.

“It doesn’t unnerve you?” Gendry asked him. “It certainly does me.”

“What, don’t I look nice?" Arya asked, placing a hand on Gendry’s chest and standing up on her tiptoes with pursed lips. Gendry yelped in a most undignified manner, climbing fully over an armchair to get away from her.

“I do not kiss dead girls!” he scolded her, red faced and shaking a finger at her while she and Ned laughed.

“I was Beric Dondarrion’s squire, if you’ll recall,” Ned said. “I do have some passing familiarity with death magic. This,” he said, gesturing to Arya, “This is new, but... interesting.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now.” Arya said, “Well, a girl needs a name to give to Yara Greyjoy. An Ironborn name.” 

“Something common, perhaps.” Ned offered. “Astrid or Alis.”

“Hmmm, Astrid is nice. I like that.” Arya murmured, adjusting her hair in the mirror. “I’ll need a few things. Clothes, I’ll need to take over bringing her meals, and I’ll need one of you to hit me at some point.”

“What?” Ned asked.

“I’m not hitting you.” Gendry said, arms folded.

“Fine, then. Have one of the guards do it.” Arya shrugged. “That’ll do just as well.”

“None of my guards would strike a woman.” Arya rolled her eyes.

“Fine, I’ll smash my face against a wall if none of you will be of any help.”

“That’s not… Don’t do that either!” Gendry said. “Why do need to fuck up your face?”

“She distrusts us already, so if I give her a reason to believe she is right, she’ll trust me more. Besides,” Arya smiled, “it’s not my face.” Gendry rolled his eyes.

“You’re telling me that if you get hit it won’t bruise your face under that?” he scoffed.

“Don’t know.” Arya said. “We’ll test it, though.”

“I’ll get you your things.” Ned blurted, leaving the room quickly. He was gone for a long time, and Arya looked over the rest of the reports while Gendry sat brooding.

“I don’t like blood magic, Arya.” he said finally, breaking the tense silence that hung in the air between them.

“I don’t like being dead.” Arya shrugged. “This has kept me breathing well enough.”

“Unlike her.” Gendry pointed at her face. “Can you take that off? I can’t have a conversation with you while looking at her.” Arya reached up and pulled the mask from her face, though it pulled and stuck. As her features fell back into place, Gendry relaxed. “Better.” 

“I didn’t kill her.” Arya said as she placed the face gently on the table with the others, giving the cheek a gentle caress with her fingertip as though flattening a wayward page of a book. “I don’t even know how long she’s been dead. Could be a thousand years or fewer than ten. But no matter, she’s dead now.”

“No. I don’t suppose we’ll hear any argument from her.” he sighed. “Who else have you got in that bag?” 

“A darker girl,” she said, lifting up the edge of one face with her finger, “she could pass me off as Braavosi, Volantian, Dothraki perhaps. She’s quite versatile if I change my clothing and the way I speak. I’ve got a prettier face, too, if I need to get in somewhere with weak willed men. I’ve got a few men, as well. A warrior and a common looking man. I am not fond of men’s skin, though. Can’t wear it for too long. Then there’s this one.” she said, hurling the last face at him. Gendry jumped but caught it, nearly gagging at the feel of it in his hands, limp and cold and soft.

“Gods, what the fuck?” he moaned, looking down at the wrinkled, ugly thing. Arya smiled at him.

“That’s Walder Frey,” She smirked. “Now I did kill that one.”

Ned returned with his arms full, then, and looked between them nervously. Gendry threw old Walder’s face back at Arya, who caught it one handed and stuffed it back in her small pouch with the others. Ned dropped the pile of things on the desk in front of Arya, then stepped back, hands on his hips and smiling.

“I talked to the cook, she said one of the girls from the laundries is Ironborn. Got her name, went to talk to her. Now she dresses all nice and Dornish now, but she did have a few old dresses tucked away. I bought them off her, and look at this!” he pulled out a kraken broach from the pile, holding it up. “She wasn’t attached to this one at all, said they were fashionable around the last rebellion, but it could help, yeah? Make you look really Ironborn!”

“Good job, Ned,” Arya smiled at him. “Very nice work.” Ned looked proud. “Now I will be the one to bring Greyjoy her meals. Instruct your guards to be rude to me. Tell them that I, Astrid, anyway, consent to it.”

“Alright, but they won’t be happy about it. They’re good men.” Arya smiled at him.

“It needs to look real, Ned. If we give her any reason to be suspicious, our deception will not be successful. Tell your guards that Astrid is a spy, tell them of their part in her mission and they will do their part for the good of the realm.” Ned nodded. “Tell no one of my faces, Ned. Now or ever. I’ve trusted you with a secret known only to my sister and Gendry, I beg you to keep it.”

“Your secrets have always been safe with me, Arya.” Ned promised. “Have no doubt in that.”

\---

It must be slow. She must build trust naturally. Yara must come to her. Astrid had sought the help of Gendry, for his blacksmith’s hands were the largest and strongest, and asked him to grip her wrist and leave bruises there. He was sad to do it, but he did. As the bruises blossomed, red and purple and fresh on Astrid’s pale skin, Gendry had rubbed circles into it to ease her pain, careful not to press too hard. He might have laid gentle kisses to her wrists if she were Arya, but Gendry had no kisses for Astrid. Arya craved them, hidden though she was beneath Astrid’s skin, but despite this fact she was glad to go without his affections. She would claim them with her own skin, her own lips, soon enough.

Astrid’s dress, once belonging to Myka the laundress, was slightly too large around and much too shortly built for her. It was belted tight around the waist, but the neckline lay a little too low and the hem too high, revealing her dirty slippers. The sleeves continually rode up her arms, threatening to reveal the burgeoning bruises unless they were tugged down, a nervous tic that Astrid had. The dress had not come to her this poorly fitted. Many alterations had been done in the night with clumsy fingers and dismal stitching, but the effect was worth Arya’s pricked fingers. Perhaps the spots of blood on the cuffs would help the ruse as well. 

Astrid walked past the guards and into Yara’s cell, her eyes cast down and her hands trembling slightly, the dishes on the tray made anxious music as they shook against each other. In short, cautious steps, Astrid walked over to the table and placed the tray down a little too loudly for any servant of the great House of Dayne. She waited, then, to be dismissed by her Lady. She kept her eyes on her toes, her hands clasped in front of her, tugging on her sleeves. 

“You’re new.” Yara said harshly, her voice still gravelly from all the screaming and the cursing she had done.

“Aye, M’lady. I mean yes, I’m meant to serve you now, but I’m new to that.”

“Have you been in this household long?” Yara asked.

“Not long, M’lady. They thought… They thought it amusing to have me serve you.” Yara scoffed.

“You’re Ironborn, then?”

“Aye, M’lady. I was on my father’s ship in Old Town when they took- when they offered him a job for me.” Astrid let her voice shake. Astrid let her eyes well with tears, downcast though they were. Perhaps the Lady would see.

“What is your name?”

“A-Astrid, M’Lady.” 

“Do they mistreat you, Astrid?” she snatched her hands behind her back. Hide the bruises, Astrid. Let her seek them out.

“No.” she answered too quickly, shaking her head too hard. What a terrible liar Astrid was. 

“Girl!” a guard yelled. Astrid jumped. “No chatting with the prisoners!” Astrid scurried out of the cell like a meek little mouse. The guard shoved her roughly forward, and she let out a weak cry as she tripped, unable to catch herself, crashing hard to the floor. The guard lifted her by her elbow, dragging her along. As he did, the sleeve of her dress rode up, the bruises visible for just a moment. Yara’s eyes followed her until she was out of sight. Yara had seen. 

The door to the tower cells closed firmly behind them and the guard let Astrid go.

“Great work, Timos!” Astrid said, smiling and clapping him on the shoulder. “Truly great! You could be a mummer if you wanted!” Timos leaned against the wall and blew out a large puff of air. 

“You are the strangest person, Astrid.” he said. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Not at all. Feel free to be a bit rougher tomorrow. Really have fun with it. And maybe have the boys yell some sexual things, as well.” Timos shook his head, eyes wide.

“I do not want to do that.”

“You’re no fun at all, Timos.” Astrid laughed, walking away toward the Lord’s solar.

\---

Three meals a day Astrid brought to Yara Greyjoy. Each time Astrid kept her eyes down, moving like a kicked dog and exchanging tense, polite words. Astrid lied to Yara, and Yara knew. When Yara asked about her father, Astrid answered with only a little sob. When Yara asked about the bruises, Astrid said she’d fallen. On the third day, Astrid had a bloody gash on her forehead and a bruised eye. She hid it with her hair hanging in front of her face, but Yara saw, as she was meant to. Greyjoy grasped her hand as Astrid handed her a cup of warm tea, moving like a stormy sea in the cup from the shaking of Astrid’s hands.

“I’ll kill them.” Yara whispered, so quiet. Astrid looked into Greyjoy’s eyes, then, and found both rage and compassion. Yara felt for poor little Astrid. Astrid allowed her eyes to fill with tears before pulling her gaze away and making toward the door. 

“I will bring you water for bathing with your supper, M’Lady.” she said with a curtsy. They were close. Astrid’s work was nearly done. She brought the water as she’d promised, and something else, too. There, at the bottom of the bucket, sat Myka’s old kraken broach. Yara felt it brush against her fingers as she plunged her cloth into the warm water. She froze, holding it in her hand and closing her fist tightly around it. ‘ _ What is dead may never die. _ ’

\---

“Shit! Ow!” Arya yelped as Gendry pressed the washcloth much too roughly to her forehead. 

“Told you it would hurt you, too.” he said smugly.

“Shut up. I was much gentler with you when I cleaned your hands.”

“My hands were the result of work, you silly git, not ramming my face into a door frame six times.”

“Wouldn’t have had to if you had just punched me like I asked,” she pouted. “Probably would’ve only taken one.”

“Arya, I will never punch you no matter how many times you ask me.”

“Oh, so pulling my hair and slapping my ass are fine but punching is one step too far?”

“Well that’s different,” He said, a blush rising on his cheeks.

“Seems an arbitrary line, is all.”

“I don’t like seeing you hurt. Slapping your ass and ruining your face are just different.” he frowned in concentration as he washed her face, pressing the cool cloth gingerly into the bruised skin beneath her eye. He pulled back, examining her face carefully. He seemed satisfied with his work and placed the cloth back into the washbasin. As he turned away, Arya reached forward and grabbed his face, bringing it back to her own. She kissed him tenderly, just a press of his lips against hers. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close to him. When they pulled apart to breathe they barely moved at all, their noses still resting side by side. Gendry closed his eyes and tilted his head down, pressing his forehead into hers. She hissed a bit but followed him as he went to draw back, refusing to lose contact with his skin. They sat there, their faces just a hair apart, feeling the heat of each other’s quickened breath on their lips. 

“Arya I-” Gendry started, “I hope you get what you need soon.”

“So do I.”

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he said again, drawing his hand up to caress the side of her face.

“I know.” she whispered, pressing her cheek into the warmth of his palm.

\---

Yara was waiting for Astrid the next time she entered, carrying her tray like always. Yara watched her carefully as she made her way around the room, collecting soiled clothes for washing. Arya knew that Yara would want to speak with Astrid today. Yara would be intrigued by Astrid’s gift. Just as planned, a monstrous crashing came from down the hall, followed by calls for help, desperate calls. The guard moved quickly, locking Astrid in the cell with Yara before running off with the others to help handle whatever had befallen them. Astrid knew. She’d told them to throw sets of armor down the stairs and crash some swords together. The guards were enjoying their roles more these days, eager to follow Astrid the spy’s directions.

As soon as the large door closed behind the fleeing guards, Yara grasped Astrid’s hand and spun her so they were face to face.

“We must be quick!” Yara said. “They’ll come back!”

“M’Lady!” Astrid sobbed, grasping her hand tightly. “Please!”

“When I get out of here I will take you with me, Astrid, I swear it.” Yara said frantically. “They will suffer for their crimes against you and me. When the Iron Islands are free and I am Queen no one will be able to hurt you again. These monsters take whatever they want, but I’ll keep you safe.” Astrid flinched as Yara stroked the bruises on her face. This was an unexpected turn, but possibly a useful one. Arya knew she should feel guilty for using Greyjoy’s affections for young Astrid against her, but dismissed the thought. Yara had started a war and would kill Astrid in a heartbeat if she knew who truly wore her skin. Arya would take the advantage Yara had just given her.

“How?” Astrid choked.

“My men will come for me.”

“Your men are locked in the dungeons, M’Lady. I have seen them!”

“I have others, Astrid, who are free and who fight for our freedom. When I do not return to the Iron Islands as planned, my men will sail for Casterly Rock and march to Riverrun and once the Stark’s pawns have fallen so will their tyrant Queen. It will not be long now, Astrid.”

“How long? How much longer do I have to stay here?” Astrid sobbed.

“It’s been four days since I was taken prisoner,” Yara said. “I was due back in a fortnight, so ten more and my men will begin their raids without me. You must be patient, Astrid, be patient and keep safe. My men will come for us and I will take you home.” Astrid looked toward the door, panicked, and in her haste she knocked over the tray she had placed too precariously on the edge of the table. This crash was the signal they had prepared, and the guards returned, rushing into the cell and ripping Astrid away, dragging her into the hallway as she cried, unable to fight back. Yara raged against the bars of her cell again as she hasn’t since that first day. She called them savages, she called them bastards, she called them animals. 

“You boys have fun?” Astrid asked, her amused expression a stark contrast to the wetness of tears on her face. A gaggle of guards sat red faced, laughing, amongst what appeared to be the entire armory strewn about the hall. One guard, a younger man named, most unfortunately, Morsh, sat cross legged on the stone floor smashing two swords against a breastplate like a child playing on drums. 

“Never leave us, Astrid.” Morsh pleaded. “Things are so much more interesting when you’re here.”

“Ah, but I’ve just finished my work,” she said sweetly. “And there are many more wicked people in the world waiting to be undone by my charms.”

“There is none more wicked than you,” Timos said, shaking his head at her and smiling. Astrid laughed as she walked away toward the Lord’s solar to tell him what Yara Greyjoy had just confessed. The guards would never see Astrid again. They would see her walk into the solar and never leave, and they would forever wonder what became of the girl, the plain faced spy. They never forgot her.

\---

“Ten days.” Ned said. “Not fast enough to reach Casterly Rock or Riverrun by land.”

“By sea, though, it is possible.” Arya countered.

“Possible if not for the Greyjoy fleet sitting straight in your path to the Riverlands.”

“The Riverlands, aye, but not Casterly Rock. they will not have ventured that far South yet. I say we sail to Casterly rock, no more than 6 days with a good crew and rowers to aid the sails, we warn them of the attack, they seal the Rock, then we gather the Lannister troops and march to aid Riverrun. On land the Ironborn won’t stand a chance. We can crush the rebellion within a fortnight.” 

“If-” Ned yelled, “If Greyjoy was truthful and IF her men hold off on the attacks for ten more days. And IF you aren't spotted by anyone complicit in the plot.”

“We have Davos! The man’s a smuggler by trade, we’ll smuggle ourselves into Casterly Rock and then march for Riverrun. That way we will not tip off the Ironborn.”

“That sounds well enough, but you have far fewer troops than the Ironborn, even with the Lannister and Tully forces. Their armies have never rebuilt and they will have no time to call their banners, not that the Lannisters even have any loyal bannermen to call.”

“Then we send for the Crown’s forces.” Arya said.

“How? You said this could not be trusted to ravens!”

“Will both of you stop yelling?” Gendry pleaded. “It’s not that complicated. Here,” he said, moving pieces around on the map laid out across the table. “First Ned and his men go take Yara to Sansa and Bran. We use the original plan where you pretend to want to marry her or woo her or whatever nonsense. Then you warn them, give them Greyjoy as proof, which will also prevent her men from staging a rescue. Have Sansa and Bran send their troops to our aid. We sail for Casterly Rock, disguised as a merchant ship selling that wine you’ve all got down here. Gods know that won’t be suspicious, there’s more wine than water in a Lannister. Then we can alert them, they can raise their defenses against the Ironborn, and we march for Riverrun to defeat them on land. Right?”

“That… yep.” Ned said, examining the board. “That looks good. That’s the plan.” he nodded, looking over the map once more. “I’ll just see to the arrangements, get supplies packed, and we can all head out in the morning.”

“Great.” Gendry said, crossing his arms.

\---

No guest of House Dayne ever left worse off than they came. By the time they set off in the ship Ned had procured, the fastest in Dorne or so he swore, Gendry’s hands were healed, though still pink and softer than he’d like. They were given many, many jars of the Maester’s ointment, lest their hands become torn from the oars once more. They were given casks of Dornish wine, just enough to convince curious eyes that they were as they claimed. Dressed in the Dornish fashion, all except Gendry who steadfastly refused to wear a pair of orange silk pants, Arya’s crew boarded the boat and sailed as swiftly as they could manage toward Casterly Rock. Ned Dayne rode North and East towards King’s Landing, artifacts from Yara’s ship disguised as crates of presents for the Northern Queen, a handsome carriage made into a cell for their prize prisoner. They marched up the road, singing their songs like a jolly group of hopeful romantics, onlookers none the wiser of their mission.

It took six days to reach Casterly Rock, run by a steward as it’s Lord, Tyrion, rarely visited from his home in King’s Landing. The steward took their warning solemnly, but was unconcerned. Casterly Rock was a fortress made for siege. With the advance warning, the steward stocked their stores, brought what villagers there were inside the walls, and shut the gates. It was all he could do, and all he cared to. There was truly nothing left of the once proud House of Lannister to defend. 

With only four days left before the Ironborn launched their attacks and a five day march to Riverrun, Arya relented and sent a raven to her uncle Edmure to warn him of what was coming. They might beat the Ironborn to Riverrun still, as they also had to march over land to reach it. With the horses lent to them by the steward of Casterly Rock, they rode hard inland. Gendry thought of all the tales, the legends, the songs of war he’d heard in his life, and cursed them for their lies. War, it seemed to him, was less great battles and more moving about quickly, running too and fro, waiting and rushing. He almost yearned for a battle just so it all could end. 

\---

The road from Dorne to King’s Landing is long, and it balanced on the border between the Reach and the Stormlands. Once they left Dorne, the heat became the humid and muggy type, setting Ned’s hair into a frenzy and making it so he never truly dried after bathing, remaining wet from the sweat and the moisture in the air clinging to him. It was truly disgusting. After ten days, Ned knew he was too late. The Ironborn must have launched their attacks by now, and he could only pray that Arya and her crew were successfully holding them off. He hoped that the Crown’s troops would arrive in time to be of use, to turn the tide of the battle that would come. He rode as hard as he could, driving his horses until they could go no further and buying new ones when he could to keep their speed, costs be damned. On the eleventh day, Ned Dayne rode into King’s Landing, Yara Greyjoy still fighting in her carriage cell, her curses covered by the sounds of his men singing, though their voices were rough from singing for so long. Ned could not know that this was the same day that Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon arrived in Riverrun. He could not know that this was the same day the Ironborn were touching down on the mainland. He knew, however, that Sansa Stark would hear him, and so he rode for the Red Keep, the banners of Starfall flying behind him.

\---

“Aren’t you the Queen of the North?” Tyrion asked, rolling his wine around his cup, his feet propped up on the table where Sansa worked. She rolled her eyes, keeping her focus on the papers in front of her. “So, tell me this: If you are the Queen in the North why is that you sit here, in the South, handling Southern affairs?”

“Because,” Sansa said flatly, “No one else will. My brother spends his days in his mind with no regard for the needs of the kingdom and your small council-” Sansa slammed her quill down on the table, splattering ink across her document, “Your small council is a joke. Ah fuck. I’ll have to rewrite this.” 

“A joke seems to be overstating things, Your Grace.”

“I’ve been to your small council meetings, Lord Tyrion, and I think you’re right. A joke would at least be amusing.”

“You wound me.”

“I haven’t yet but I’m sure you’ll know when I do.”

“What, precisely, is the problem with our small council?”

“It’s been over four years and you have no Master of Whispers or of War. Your Master of Ships, while good at his job, is missing-”

“Working elsewhere.”

“Your Master of coin is a philandering simpleton-”

“That one’s fair.”

“Your Archmaester is near a child and half trained-”

“And yet better than the last.”

“Your  _ hand-” _

“Oh dear.”

“-is drunk barely past midday and has missed the last  _ three _ small council meetings. Three, Tyrion. Brienne is the only competent one among you and I am a hair's breadth away from taking her North with me when I return. To put simply the answer to your question, Lord Tyrion, I am here and doing  _ your _ work because you lot have given me no other choice in the matter.”

“Have you ever seen a problem and decided not to fix it? Decided that it was best left to the next fool to find it?” Sansa stared at him as though he’d grown a second head.

“You... Run... The Kingdoms.” she said harshly through gritted teeth. “You do not have that luxury. In fact,” She said, snatching his cup of wine, “you ought to take far fewer luxuries than you do. Eat some bread or take a bath or something, I really do not care, but if you aren’t sober enough to help me with this in one hour I swear on the Old Gods I will-” Tyrion put his hands in the air, admitting defeat.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Just then, Podrick came into the room, a pinched look in his eyebrows.

“What is it, Pod?” Sansa and Tyrion asked at once.

“Your grace, there’s an urgent visitor here for you. Lord Ned Dayne of Starfall begs an audience. He said to say that your sister Arya sent him.” Sansa sat straighter in her chair. 

“Send him in. And find Jon and Bran, urgently. Bring them here.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Podrick said with a small bow. 

Jon and Bran entered before Podrick returned with Ned Dayne. He looked somewhat road worn, although he was still quite handsome in a pretty kind of way. He rushed into the solar and fell to one knee.

“Your Graces, I cannot thank you enough for seeing me so quickly.”

“No formalities, Dayne.” Jon said. “You told Podrick that Arya sent you. Is this true?”

“It is. She and I knew each other as children and she entrusted me with a message for you.” A thought struck her then, that this Dayne boy may be the Westerosi lover that Keera had spoken of. Sansa would be shocked by that. Arya had only ever shown annoyance at such dainty men. If he were not the one Keera spoke of, but he knew her then, Dayne may hold information that Sansa greatly wanted to pry out of him. This was not the time, clearly, so Sansa locked that knowledge away for use at some future date.

“Arya is in Vilinos.” Sansa said instead.

“She’s not, she’s in-”

“Riverrun.” Bran interrupted, sounding surprised. “Arya is in Riverrun.”

“Yes. Arya should have reached Riverrun by now.” Sansa turned to glare at Bran.

“You didn’t think to tell us that Arya had returned?”

“I hadn’t known. I do not watch Arya. I’ve no desire to see the things that she does. You do not know what she does. You would not want to see it either.”

“My message really is quite urgent!” Ned yelled over them, as politely as he could.

“Then get out with it.” Jon snapped.

“A plot was uncovered and revealed to Arya while she was in Vilinos. She has returned to thwart it. The Greyjoys have begun another rebellion and would start it by sowing seeds of distrust for the crown throughout the kingdom. She built crownships to use in raids and murders and frame the crown for them. She attempted to murder Arya by ambushing her ship. Arya escaped with her crew but the  _ Nymeria _ was lost. We captured one of the false crownships and I have it stored in Starfall. We captured its crew, including Yara Greyjoy. I’ve brought her as my prisoner, as proof of my claims. Her Ironborn are attacking Casterly Rock and Riverrun as we speak to weaken your support on the Western coast before seceding from the realm. Arya has ridden there to warn them and to fight against the Ironborn. She requests you send troops to Riverrun to aid her.”

Sansa listened to his story, then turned to Bran for confirmation of it. 

“The Ironborn have made land in the Riverlands. It is as he says. They march for Riverrun.” Sansa nodded harshly.

“Thank you, Lord Dayne, for bringing this to us.” She turned her gaze to Podrick, who stood behind him. “Have Greyjoy brought to the Throne Room.” She ordered. “I’d like to speak with her.”

\---

Bran in his wheelchair, Sansa sat the throne. Jon and Ned Dayne stood beside her, Brienne and Tyrion beside Bran. Save for them, the Throne Room was empty. There would be no spectators to this. Podrick marched Yara Greyjoy into the middle of the room, kicking and spitting at him, her hands in irons behind her back. Sansa’s back was tense, stick straight, her face hardened into the intimidating Northern ruler she was. The expression she wore brought grown men to their knees, but Yara Greyjoy just raged, unaffected. Podrick dodged her kicks and dropped her to her knees on the stone floor, moving to stand behind her with his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Yara of the House Greyjoy, Lady of the Iron Islands,” Sansa started, “There have been some dire accusations lodged against you. Would you like to hear them or do you know why you have been brought before us today?”

“Fuck you!” Yara shouted.

“We’ll read the charges then. Treason. Attempted murder of Princess Arya Stark, Lord Gendry Baratheon, Ser Davos Seaworth, and- how many others were about the Nymeria when it was attacked, Lord Dayne?”

“There were thirty-six others aboard, Your Grace.” Ned said.

“And so there will be thirty-six additional counts of attempted murder. Impersonating the crown, this is also a crime. Am I missing any charges, Lord Dayne?”

“The attacks on Riverrun and Casterly Rock, and framing you for murder, Your Grace.”

“Ah yes. Those as well. How do you answer these charges, Lady Greyjoy?”

“I have done no different from you. You’re no wolf, you are a snake in furs.” Greyjoy scoffed at her. 

“You have committed treason against the Crown of the Six Kingdoms and attempted to murder my sister, do you deny it?”

“Do you?” Yara yelled. “Do you deny your victims? All you’ve killed and stolen to wear a crown you did not earn?”

“I am not on trial today, Lady Greyjoy.” Yara choked out a bitter laugh.

“This is a mockingbird trial. I’ll end the same as Baelish, won’t I? Throat slit before I can defend myself?”

“Perhaps, although I hope there will be less begging from you.” Sansa snapped.

“Is this Northern justice, Stark? You bring your friends and sycophants to bear witness against me, to pass judgement against me? Kill me and get it over with. Position whatever pawn you please in charge in the Iron Islands, they’ll be dead in a week. Take the Islands yourself, like you take everything else that doesn’t belong to you. You’d take my youngest son if I had one, wouldn’t you?” Sansa stood, then, walking toward Yara before she could think. Jon reached out to grab her, but she shook him off. Brienne grabbed the pommel of her sword. “The Iron Islands will be independent one day, Stark. My father failed, but I won’t. I won’t rest until I have taken from you the same you have taken from me.”

“What have I taken from you? You who I have never spoken to before this moment? What have I done to you? What is it that I have taken?”

“Theon.” Sansa slapped her. As soon as the name left Yara’s mouth, Sansa’s hand cracked against her cheek, echoing out in the chamber. The room stood silent, shocked, save for Jon who rushed forward to drag Sansa back. 

“Take her to the dungeons!” Sansa screamed. Podrick immediately rushed forward and lifted Greyjoy, pulling her from the room. She did not fight this time, but only smiled with her blood stained teeth as she went. Jon held Sansa back with a firm arm around her waist. Her fair skin was red and her fingers dug into Jon’s arm, hard enough to bruise him though he paid it no mind. Jon grasped Sansa by the arm and pulled her from the Throne Room, which was left entirely silent, no one daring to speak. 

Jon did not stop until he reached Sansa’s chambers, servants flattened themselves against the walls to clear his path when they saw the siblings marching through the halls as though to war, hard faced and angry. Jon slammed the door to Sansa’s chambers behind him and she immediately collapsed into his arms, wet, racking sobs shaking her. She did not cry a single tear until the door had latched, but now it seemed the tears could not stop. She cried so hard she could not speak, could not breathe. She feared she may drown in the same tears she shed. 

Jon held her, rubbing her back and her hair, whispering something to her that she could not hear. After the tears slowed, her body exhausted from them, Sansa recognized that he was singing to her, so softly, the same tune her mother had when she was sick or when she and Arya had fought, one making the other cry. At that memory, Sansa cried again. It had been so long, years perhaps, since the Queen in the North had cried.

“I miss him,” Sansa choked.

“I know.” Jon whispered. “I hated him. For years I did, but not in the end. Not now. I miss him, too.”

Poor Theon, to have lived every mistake a man could and live to regret them. Brave Theon, for facing it, for saving her, for coming home to die for the same brother he’d killed once before. Poor, brave Theon. ‘ _ Yara has it wrong’ _ , Sansa thought, for she had not taken Theon. If she had, he would still be here with her. 

Sansa did not have Theon, the cold earth did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting closer to the end, I'm having a really hard time feeling good about what I'm writing. Wrapping it all up, the plot lines, the themes, it's really hard and I don't know if I'm just sad or actually unsatisfied. I like this chapter, though. This one was fun to write.
> 
> edit: writing this has been really fun, but the next few chapters are going to take a little bit longer. I have chronic pain in my arm and sitting at the computer for long periods of time makes it worse, so I'm going to make sure I take breaks more often and limit the consecutive hours I spend writing. Sorry in advance for the wait, I hope it won't be too noticeable, I'll try to still update every week.


	17. There Are Consequences

In the grandest sense, five days was not so long to ride. Gendry had, at various points in his life, rode and walked and rowed and ran further, so it should not have been an issue to ride from Casterly Rock to Riverrun. But five days was quite a long time to stay awake. They did sleep, barely, and only after the sun was too far gone to see. Only when Arya was worried a horse would break an ankle on a stone or branch in the blackness would she order them to stop and they would sleep without camp until the sky lightened. They slept four hours, maybe five some nights, and they always woke weary. 

Gendry was struck by his nightmares again, and this time his mind had new horrors with which to haunt him. He knew he had to sleep, to rest for the day of riding that awaited him and the battles that would come after, but the darkness held no peace, the night no silence. His nightmares had been better with Arya sleeping by him the past months, he no longer shot up screaming and covered in sweat, he rarely thrashed in his sleep or cried out, but as the day of reckoning inched ever closer they returned with their full force. They slept under the stars, so Gendry tried to keep silent at the very least. He did not need Davos’s concern, nor the judgement of the men. He dreamed of battle, of Arya gutted and bleeding, Sansa dead in Jon’s arms, Davos riddles with arrows, krakens crushing direwolf ships and storms that did not break. He would wake and bite his tongue to stifle his sounds and not wake the men or Arya who slept soundly in his arms. She always was a heavy sleeper, and he had never been more thankful for that than he was now.

He shifted out of Arya’s grasp despite the small noises of discontentment she made at the loss of his warmth. He watched her with amusement as she wiggled towards where he had been, still asleep but seeking him. He wished he could spend the rest of the night watching her sleep, illuminated by only the distant glow of dying coals and the light of what stars could make it through the trees, but it hurt him to even see her face. He had seen Arya Stark die a thousand nights, a thousand ways. In his dreams, he’d seen her drown and bleed and sweat to death, and, now that his dreams had returned, the visions melded with her sleeping form and he could hardly tell which was real anymore, whether he was awake or sleeping. He was cursed to be kept awake by nightmares and driven mad by lack of sleep until the terrors ate into his waking mind and there was no respite from them.

He sat by the dying fire, hours after nightfall and hours still before dawn, the rest of them sleeping around him. As he stoked the fire, bringing the embers to flame once more, he was struck by the beauty of it before looking sharply away, the flames burned white shapes in his vision that glowed against the blackness of the moonlit forest. He’d always been fond of fire, working forges. He’d seen it as a part of his craft. As much as he loved his hammer, he loved fire. Swords were strong, cutting steel and leather and man alike, but they were no match for fire. He’d admired that, how a flame could take something solid and change it, how things were made anew in the heat of it. Fire was life and creation to him. It hadn’t been until he met the red witch that he saw the other side of it. He remembered the hiss of the leeches in the flames, the flame rising higher with each name. This was the first time he’d seen fire as a tool of death rather than a means of light and life. A thousand burns he’d suffered in his life, and yet this was the first he’d feared fire.

He understood the appeal that fire held to red priests, and the understanding concerned him. For years, ever since he’d left Dragonstone, he’d avoided watching fires. He’d stoke them, ensure they were lit, but he would not watch the ways that they danced, the way the fire licked the metal as it softened. He did not watch because he feared what he might see. There were some men who sought out visions and some men who had knowledge of the future given to them, a gift against their will. Men did not always choose to see, and he dared not risk becoming one of those chosen, cursed seers. Gendry knew of men who dreamed of days yet to come, he knew of men who saw them in the flames, and, usually, he wanted none of it. Prophecy had been the death of everyone that shared his blood, the guilty and the innocent alike. Tonight he turned his gaze back to the fire, he watched as the flames grew, their light flickering on the trees and the faces of the sleeping men. The light burned his eyes, the heat drying them until his vision clouded over, but he could not look away even to blink. Maybe if he saw something, anything, a glimpse, a thread, maybe then he could sleep. Anything at all that showed his dreams were not the true future waiting for him would allow him to silence them long enough to rest. He just wanted to sleep, but he was tormented from all directions. The past haunted him, the future terrified him, and the fleeting present was excruciating, knowing it was passing even as it happened, he clung to it and it slipped away, smoke in his fingers. The future always came, he just wanted to know what it held so he could rest. All he saw was fire. He was both grateful and disappointed.

He laid back down with Arya before any of the others woke. She curled herself to him instantly, wrapping an arm around his waist and throwing one of her legs over his, tucked between them so she trapped him completely. It felt like only minutes before she shifted, beginning to wake with the sun. He closed his eyes to pretend he had slept. No need to worry her. Gendry barely thought at all as he went through the motions, gathering his things and saddling his horse, eating his dried meat as they rode. It felt like he had not been still since the spirit winds. Always moving, always running, never far enough.

As they approached the castle the gates of Riverrun were shut, a hundred archers ready to rain death upon the party as they approached. One of them must have lost his grip, because without an order called a single arrow fell down, landing harmlessly in front of them but spooking a horse, nearly throwing the rider before he regained control. The other archers looked at each other, frantic, trying to decide whether they ought to fire as well. Arya rode to the front of the party, placing her horse between her men and the gates, glaring up at the archers.

“Shoot me and my uncle will have something to say about it.” Arya called out. 

“Bows down!” came the order. “Open the gates for the Princess Arya Stark!” The gates began to open loudly, and Arya rolled her eyes as she charged her horse forward, riding into the courtyard at a gallop, her small army of sailors behind her. Her uncle waited for her, standing tall and proud. Gendry had not seen Edmure Tully since Sansa had silenced him in the Dragonpit, and the man had since grown a full red beard. He’d also filled out dramatically. He wasn’t fat, but his years of being a prisoner had left him gaunt and he was now sturdy, his cheeks had lost all of the hollowness they once held. His wife stood beside him, ever the proper little lady. She was a dainty thing, even her features were. She looked like a pretty little mouse, small and meek, but something else hid behind her downcast eyes. No, not a mouse at all, it seemed. She was something bolder, more patient. Gendry thought she looked the type to be underestimated and the type to know how to use that to her advantage. ‘ _ Watch out for that one _ ,’ he thought. Beside her stood a boy, young although Gendry could not place the age. He didn’t spend enough time around children to know their years by sight, but he looked less than ten and entirely like his father.

Arya dismounted and the others followed suit, handing off their horses to be fed and watered. Lord Edmure came forward to receive Arya, seeming hesitant. It was only fair, he did not know her. He’d only met her once in the Dragonpit though their lives had been so close to touching many other times. Arya had been promised to the Freys along with him, although he was the only one that had to fulfil this promise. Arya had attended his wedding, or the aftermath of it, anyway, although he did not know it. They were strangers and family, and in truth Arya scared him. She was an unknown entity, he had no means of predicting what she would do and so he treated her with caution, as though she might break or explode if he made a wrong step. 

“Uncle.” Arya said, stepping forward to meet him.

“Niece,” he replied, grasping her extended hand and shaking it. “We’ve been preparing for siege ever since we received your raven. The villages have been evacuated and brought within the walls. The quarters may be tight, but I set aside enough for your men.”

“Thank you, Uncle. They’ll need their rest before the Ironborn come. They should not be far behind us.”

“No more than a day, perhaps, if my sentries are accurate.” he said. “Enough time to prepare.”

“How long can you sustain in a siege, Uncle?” Arya asked. A fair question. The walls may hold but the men might starve.

“We have provisions for two years.” he said. “Those villagers brought more than they will take, they are farmers after all. And- and I keep our stores as full as possible. Just in case. It is not that I don’t trust the peace, but I have been wrong to trust before.”

“Any man that overprepares looks a fool until he doesn’t.” Arya shrugged. “Then he is a tactician. Your paranoia may save us all, although I hope we are not here for two years.”

“I hope not, as well. We shall speak of battle plans once you all are rested and fed. We do not have a lot of time, but we have time enough for that.” Roslin stepped forward to join her husband.

“I will show you to your rooms, Princess.” She said, “Lords Baratheon and Seaworth as well.”

“Arya will do, Lady Tully.” Arya said, “Or neice. You are my aunt by marriage after all.” Roslin smiled.

“Arya, then.” 

Lord Tully and his men showed the crew to the rooms that would house them. They were not the honored guests that they were in the House of Dayne, but neither were they disrespected. They were given soldiers’ quarters in the garrison and warm food. The sailors, unaccustomed to riding for so long, were sore and tired. They ate and slept, waiting for orders from their Captain. 

Lady Tully walked the three guests of status to their chambers, dropping Davos and Gendry off first before walking further into the wing of the castle with Arya. They did not enter the section where the Tully family lived, but they housed Arya closer to it than any of the others. That was how they saw her, she figured. Almost family. Almost one of them but an outsider. She was unbothered by this. As she herself had not considered the young Lord Tully at all, she did not feel it would be fair to take offense. She and Roslin Tully walked together in silence. The castle was bustling with preparations for war and it was only as they approached the family’s quarters that the number of servants and guards lessened. They turned the final corner and stood by Arya’s chamber door, now the only two in the hall. As Arya went to enter, Roslin touched Arya’s elbow to stop her and she turned, finding Roslin’s usually downcast eyes were now staring straight into hers.

“I know what you did.” Roslin whispered. Footsteps sounded from around the corner, approaching them. The clang of armor, distinct and unmistakable, coming closer. Arya’s heart began to pound in anticipation. Roslin had once been a Frey, and Arya’s own words echoed in her mind: ‘ _ leave one wolf alive… _ ’

“And I welcome you back to your mother’s home, Princess Arya,” Roslin said loudly as the guard turned the corner. “I hope you find these rooms to your liking. Shall I have a bath sent up?”

“Y-yes, My Lady.” Arya responded, confused, watching the guard walk right past them and turn the corner again. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Your Grace. I will have one sent right up.” The guard’s footsteps grew more distant and Roslin dropped her voice to a whisper again. “I only wish I’d seen it.” she said, her eyes twinkled as she did. Was it joy, there? Appreciation? Amusement? Roslin turned then, before Arya could be sure, and walked quickly away, her eyes downcast and demure once more. Once a Frey, perhaps, but no longer.

\---

Their dinner had been sent to them in their quarters, Lord Edmure had thought they would be tired. Gendry’s rooms were nice, he figured. He finished his food and kicked off his boots, padding around the room on bare feet, examining things. There was a Tully banner on one wall. In case he forgot where he was, probably. A person got to pick their house banner, didn’t they? The founder of a house designed it, and all those who came after were stuck with it, but that first person got to pick. He didn’t remember enough of his house histories lessons to recall who had founded House Tully, but anyone who would pick a stupid fish was probably not worth knowing anyway. He remembered the banners of his neighboring houses decently enough since he saw them regularly, and most of their banners weren’t horrid. Morrigen and Swann and Mertyns were all birds of some sort. Fierce enough. But some he questioned. Tarth was much too colorful for his liking, although suns and moons he understood at least. Errol though, a pile of hay? Every time he saw that banner he got a little headache right between his eyes. What great man, war hero or conqueror or cousin of a prince, what man with the right to found a house would choose a pile of hay to represent them? He was a little thankful that he was given an existing name and not forced to design his own banners as Davos had been. He didn’t know what he would pick. It would be better than a fish or hay, though. Perhaps a warhammer. Perhaps a bull. 

The sun had gone down and Gendry knew he ought to sleep. The Ironborn would arrive in Riverrun the next day, and he would need his strength. Looking at the bed, though, he felt dread. It had been only a couple of moons that he and Arya had regularly shared a bed, but Gendry did not welcome the idea of sleeping alone. It had been only a few moons that they held each other openly, kissed in public, been together in the light and not just stolen moments in the shadows. It had felt real, their relationship in Vilinos. If he didn’t think too hard about it he could pretend that they were courting, or married. He’d called her his, and, for a fleeting moment, she was. It had been foolish of him to think it would last, but he found himself caught up in it. They had shared a home, she had called it theirs. They had talked of the future, the places they would go when the war was won. It was just talk, though. She did not want him the way he wanted her, forever. Those memories of sweet kisses turned to ash in his mouth. The memory was only that. In her uncle's home, Arya had not looked at him, not spoken to him. There would be no stolen moments here. It wasn’t her fault, and he didn’t blame her for it. She’d never lied to him. She’d said she wouldn’t marry him, she’d said that they should keep their relationship hidden. She had been honest and he had fallen anyway, fool that he was. He loved her, but it was over, he knew, before he ever got the chance to tell her sober. He thought it would end in Starfall but Ned Dayne and his newfound opinions on propriety had lent him a little more time. They had spent the final days of their tryst in each other's arms in the woods, too tired to appreciate it properly. Gendry sat down on the bed, too large and too cold, and he tried to sleep.

\---

The next morning, a servant came knocking at Gendry’s door, ready to take him to the Lord’s meeting chamber. The day of battle had come at last, and there were plans to be discussed. Arya was already in the chamber, sitting across from her uncle and his advisors. Gendry chose the seat next to her, it was open after all. On the table before them was a map of Riverrun and the surrounding area, small figures placed along the parchment, representing the sailors and the Ironborn and the Tully’s own forces. The rest of the small, hastily assembled war council filed in and took their seats, Davos sitting by Gendry. Once all the seats were filled, Lord Edmure spoke.

“A conventional army is not the one we are facing. We are fighting land bound sailors, and we do not know what weapons they have or what tactics they will use. This battle will be without precedent and I would welcome any input for our strategy.”

“What information have your scouts sent back, uncle?” Arya asked. “What are their numbers?”

“The scout said their force is smaller, perhaps five thousand men. Although that is ten times our forces.”

“We have walls. And quite a lot of arrows.” Arya said. “And reinforcements from King’s Landing should already be en route.”

“Not to mention they are without a true commander,” Gendry said. “Yara Greyjoy is supposed to be in the black cells by now. We could use her as a tool for negotiating an armistice.”

“Good.” Edmure said. “All of that is good. We will just hold them off until the reinforcements arrive and try to find one among them who will speak with us.”

“They are sailors first, and I feel that they will use the same weapons on land that they do by sea. They will treat this castle like a ship and try to board it with grappling hooks and ladders. We’ll have to fight them off the same way. We should take advantage of our higher ground,” Arya said. “Meeting them on the battlefield will win us nothing. We should use the archers first, keep distance between them and our walls so such tools will not work. If they do, we can cut their ropes or throw them from the battlements. If they charge the gates, we’ll have no choice but to fight, but we can weaken them by picking off as many as we can with the arrows and then they’ll be forced to bottleneck through the gate. If we make the gate smaller, build walls to narrow it until they have to go through one by one, that’ll be better.”

“What do you suggest?” Edmure asked.

“I’ve seen it done by fishermen,” Arya explained. “They’ll place a woven basket in the river, the mouth is wide and the fish swim in unafraid. The basket narrows and as the current pulls them and the fish are forced closer together, they get stuck and are trapped. More fish enter, unaware what is happening at the other end, and then the fisherman has done a day of fishing with ease. If we take whatever we can, crates, stones, hay bales would work, and we build a similar narrowing trap, then the forces charging the gate would become stuck with their brethren at their back shoving them further still. They’ll be easier to pick off that way, and they’ll be still enough for the archers to take care of them.”

“Hay bales?” a Lord adviser questioned. “What if they burn?” 

“Then so do the Ironborn.” Arya shrugged.

“That’s it then?” Edmure asked. “Is that the entirety of our plan?”

“That’s all we have. We have to start preparations,” Arya ordered. “There is never as much time as you think there is, uncle, and I will not have us be unprepared when the Ironborn ride in.”

“Of course.” Edmure said. “Lord-”

“I will see to the archers,” Arya interrupted him, calling out orders. “Your Lords and your cavalry men can build the net, they’re strong enough and not needed elsewhere at the moment. Gendry, please see to the armory.” Lord Edmure looked up, surprised by her use of his first name, but Arya paid him no mind. “There’s nothing we can do for the state of the weapons in time but you can at least tell me what we’re working with and get the weapons and the arrows where they need to go. I’ll need swords and axes spread out along the battlements as well for cutting ropes.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Gendry said, keeping his tone polite but not overly familiar. Arya’s knee brushed his, then, under the table and his breath caught in his throat, just for a moment. He covered it. Or he hoped he did.

They left, then, and went about their duties. Arya was right, with only hours to go Gendry could not make any more weapons, but luckily Riverrun had five blacksmiths who had all been working since the raven came near a week prior. There were barrels of arrows, hundreds of thousands, all ready to be placed in the battlements for the archers. Gendry made sure to order that extra bowstrings be secured to the side of each barrel as well. They couldn’t afford to lose an archer because of a snapped string. The man he’d given the order to nodded and ran off to see it done. Sometimes, very rarely, Gendry truly enjoyed being a Lord. Not being questioned or dismissed when your words were important was certainly a benefit. 

Gendry placed axes by each torch along the battlements. They needed to be somewhere easily seen, reached quickly. He saw Arya there, as well, ordering the archers around. When the battle came, she would be up there, raining down arrows. She was a good shot, he remembered. Better still after Anguy’s lessons. She’d probably improved since then. He would be down in the courtyard with his warhammer, ready to smash any skull that came through the net. If any even made it through. If they charged the gate. If they didn’t surrender. Either way, he would not see her again until after.

\---

Gendry was eating when the horn sounded. The Ironborn had been spotted and would be upon them within the hour. He left his bowl of stew on the table and ran to his chambers to don his armor. He pulled it out, shining piece by shining piece, and he knew it would be the last time the armor was unscathed. The armor had not yet served the purpose for which it was made. It had stopped no swords, no arrows, it had not been stained red. He put on each piece of the virgin armour, knowing he was wearing it out just to be defiled. There was one buckle he could not quite reach, the one that attached his pauldron to his breastplate. He struggled with it for a moment, grunting.

“Let me,” Arya said, slipping quietly into the room. She wore her own armor, lighter and more mobile but not as safe. He would make her a set once all of this was done, he thought. She tightened the buckle quickly, having to stand up on her tiptoes to reach it. She picked up his helm from where it sat on the bed and he dipped down so she could place it on him. She lowered it down onto his head but did not move her hands, resting them tenderly on his armored face. She kissed him. It was a simple kiss, but gods, it lit a fire that burned in his chest and his cheeks. It was over too quickly, and he missed the press of her lips the moment she pulled away. His lips felt cold without her, desperately lonely. 

“That wasn’t the last,” she promised, lowering his visor. He wanted to tell her he loved her but he could not, the words were stuck in his throat. The words felt too final. They felt like goodbye. He would tell her after, if there was an after. She left, then, quickly as she’d come. Slipping out the door, slipping away. 

\---

Arya climbed up to the battlements. Her bow in her hand. She dragged a barrel of arrows over to her perch, pulling one out. She looked out onto the horizon, the Ironborn’s torches growing closer, ever closer. She could hear their yelling, smell their smoke. Her blood chilled as she notched her arrow, ready.

They were not savages, they’d decided. They would not kill needlessly. They would give the Ironborn a chance to surrender. Around her first arrow she had wrapped a message. She’d affixed a flag to it, as well, a small Stark banner, to let them know who it was that addressed them. The message was simple: “ _ Yara Greyjoy is in our custody and has not been harmed. Her plan has failed and all seven kingdoms unite against you. Surrender now and none will die. -Princess Arya Stark _ ”. They could only hope that the Ironborn would read it and heed her warning. 

They broke through the treeline, their thousands pouring into the open, on horseback and on foot, swords and torches held high. Arya scanned the mass of screaming Ironborn charging on the castle walls, trying to pick out their commander. 

“Hold fire!” she called, the other archers on the wall heeded her, but kept their arrows notched and ready to draw back and fire. They had been well trained, she thought. A lesser archer would have drawn too early and held it, allowing themselves to become weary. These men were patient. Good. They would have to be. 

There. In the back. Of course he was in the back, coward. A man in better armor than the rest, on a better horse, yelling more. He must be in charge. Arya let loose her arrow. It arched high over the heads of the advancing Ironborn and landed in front of the man she hoped was their commander. She watched him, waiting to see what he would do. She saw him yell at another man who ran and fetched the arrow for him. He unfurled it, Arya knocked another arrow as he read it, raising her bow. He raised his eyes, and he somehow found her among the archers. She saw his mouth move, calling an order she could not hear. From the roar that erupted from his men, though, she got his meaning. Fuck.

“Fire!” she ordered. All at once, the archers let loose their arrows, hundreds raining down, the Ironborn began to drop like flies, but still more came, climbing over their own fallen brethren to line up shots of their own. An arrow flew by Arya’s head close enough to hear the wind off it. “Fuck!” she said, ducking down to knock another arrow. The Ironborn were charging at the gates, they brought forth a felled tree to use as a battering ram, to try and break down the gates. Arya took aim at the men holding the tree. If even one of them fell, it would buy them time. Arya’s arrow struck true, striking one of the men in the neck. The archer near her had followed her lead, striking the next man in the heart. The battering ram fell from their grasp, and more men rushed to pick it back up. More men fell. More arrows whizzed by her head, but she paid them no mind. The other archers would take care of them, she needed to make sure the Ironborn did not breach the gate. 

Just then, a clanging sound at her feet made her drop her aim, look down. Grappling hooks, dozens, had been thrown over the side of the battlements. The rope tightened. They were climbing. Arya darted to the torch, grabbing the axe from the ground beneath it. She raised it over her head and slammed it down on the rope, cutting it in two. She looked out over the edge, watching as the Ironborn fell, screaming, to his death. There were more. She ran along the battlements, weaving around the archers, ducking under their bows, cutting the lines. With each line she cut, the screams got louder, closer, longer. The Ironborn were getting higher up the walls. As she cut one line, a hand grasped the battlements at the next one.

“Fuck.” she said, rushing over, bringing the axe into the face of the man almost over the edge. His grip slackened and he fell, dragging her axe with him. She was almost pulled over, too, but she released the weapon in time. She was not quick enough to cut the next ropes. A half dozen men had made it up to the battlements, shoving archers off the wall. She reached for Catspaw, she didn’t have the room to use Needle without hitting her own men. Slitting throats and stabbing bellies, she rushed along, trying to cut the rest of the ropes before more men could make it up them. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder, an arrow had cut through her leather, but she kept moving. 

In front of her, an Ironborn climbed up over the edge of the battlement, grasping the archer nearest him by the collar and pulling him over the edge. The man stood in front of her and drew his sword. Arya looked behind her, just for a moment, the archers were cutting ropes as soon as they appeared, holding their line. No one would appear from behind her. She drew Needle, waiting for this man to make his move. The impatient always lost. He was impatient. He lunged, she dodged to the left. She rushed behind him, cutting his line so none could follow. As he turned, he left himself open. She charged, driving Needle up into his chest. He sputtered, the blood from his mouth landed on her face, hot and sticky, blinding her for a moment. She ripped Needle out, shoving the man over the edge of the wall. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, turning her attention back to the battlements. The archers had taken control, one team cutting ropes as the hooks flew up and one team shooting. The Ironborn that had made it up had been dealt with, the positions of the fallen archers filled. 

“They’ve broken the gate!” an archer called. Arya’s heart stopped.

\---

“They’ve broken through!” A soldier called. Gendry tightened his grip on his warhammer. They had gotten through, but they would not get far. Gendry stepped to the front, ready. Let them come. The first of them ran straight through the net, and was met with Gendry’s warhammer to the chest. His ribs broke and his chest collapsed, the man’s thin leather was no match for his own steel. He fell at the narrowed neck of the net, and Gendry kicked his corpse a little further in. Let the rest trip over him. They did, hundreds charged the gates, dozens running through at once, the net narrowing to the width of one man, squeezing them until they became stuck, crushed by the men that still poured in. Gendry swung at them, shattering their skulls and adding to the pile of bodies, forming a blockade of their own brethren. Archers clambered onto the top of the net, raining arrows into the packed crowd of men. When they died they did not fall, they were too tightly packed together. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The men that entered the net had done so to die, and die they did. It was a kill box, frighteningly efficient.

Gendry did not know how long he swung, keeping the Ironborn back, but it was soon darker. Night had fallen on the battle.

\---

The first night was the worst. The Ironborn tried to be sneaky, tried to scale the walls in the dead of night, tried to climb over the pile of dead and make it through the net. They had thought to find the castle weary and weak. Weary, yes, but vigilant. The archers slept in shifts of four hours, keeping their eyes fresh and their bow arms ready. Any that scaled the walls were quickly shot down. 

The gates were repaired the second night, barricades built behind them so the ironborn could not break through them again. The forges were restarted, and Gendry put all the smiths to work forging more arrowheads for the archers. They tore the armor and the swords from the fallen Ironborn and melted that steel down first. Any soldier with nothing to do was made to affix the arrowheads to the wooden shafts and deliver them to the archers. hundreds of arrows a night, they forged, barely keeping ahead of the demand. None of the smiths left the forges, sleeping in shifts so their work never ceased or slowed.

By the third night, the battle had simmered down to a siege. They were trapped, but, for the meantime, they were safe. It was a stalemate, they would not meet the Ironborn outside on the battlefield, and the Ironborn could not make it in. So they waited, their archers picking off anyone that came within range, for their reinforcements to come. They did not have the numbers to meet the Ironborn in a fair fight, man to man, but the crown’s forces did. An archer with a keen eye attempted to count the enemy force, counting less than three thousand men. Two thousand of their enemy had fallen in the three days of combat, and only thirty of their own. 

Arya didn’t think the Ironborn were stupid. She hoped they were not. She hoped they would listen. Affixing another Stark banner to an arrow, she wrote out another message:

“ _ To your commander or to any man among you: I was disappointed that you rejected my first offer. As I am no monster, I will extend another. There is no chance of victory and nothing to be gained from further bloodshed. We have no quarrel with you, we will allow you to leave in peace. Yara Greyjoy is our prisoner, whatever cause she fights for is lost. We count that thousands of your men have fallen, and more will fall in the days to come. Do what is best and surrender, no more have to die. To speak of peace, return my arrow. - Princess Arya Stark _ ”

She let loose the arrow, placing it in at the edge of the troop’s encampment, which was just out of range. She placed it towards the common men’s tents, hoping that one of them would see more sense than their leaders. She hoped one among them could read. 

That night, the oddest thing happened. The noise of battle rose up again, but no attacks came at their walls. Fires burned in the distance at the Ironborn camp. It took Arya a while to understand what she was seeing, but then it dawned on her. Mutiny. The soldiers did not want more war, and they rose against their leaders. At the first morning light, a solitary figure emerged from the camp, walking slowly toward the castle. He walked in the open, no shield, no cover. The archers took aim, but Arya ordered them to hold. As he came closer, Arya saw her own arrow in his hand. 

“Do not fire.” She ordered. “If any man fires a single fucking arrow I will kill him myself.” The archers nodded at her, lowering their bows. She scrambled down the battlements to the courtyard, ready to meet the man at the gate. She ran into Edmure. 

“What is this?” he asked. “Why aren’t we firing on that man?” 

“He’s come to discuss a ceasefire. I’ll go speak with him.” She said, undoing her sword belt.

“Like hell!” Edmure yelled. “He’ll kill you the moment you step out there.”

“He won’t,” Arya said.

“You don’t know that! You cannot trust their honor, your mother-”

“My mother is dead, Uncle. As is my brother, and my father. But I am not. This man will not be the one to end me. Not today.” She shoved her sword belt into Edmure’s hands, Needle and Catspaw with it. “I’ll be going unarmed. You can have the archers cover me if it pleases you.” She said, walking away. She passed Davos, who smiled at her. 

“Good luck, Your Grace,” he said. Arya smiled back.

“Raise the gates!” Arya ordered. “No more than two feet.” The men cleared away a small piece of the barricade, just at the corner. The gates rose, just far enough for Arya’s small frame to squeeze through, crawling across the ground. She rose to her feet on the other side, the gates clanging closed again behind her. She walked out to meet the man, her arms out and palms upturned to show him she was unarmed. They stopped a dozen feet apart. He was younger than she thought he’d be. Under the dried blood and grime that covered his face, he looked barely a man at all, the hair on his face still fine and patchy.  _ We are war children, all of us _ , she thought.

“I’m Arya Stark,” she called over the distance. “And you are?” Her heart pounded. She was unarmed but she had no reason to believe he was. She watched his hands, not his mouth. The mouth lies, the hands do not.

“Jac. I didn’t think it would be you they sent.”

“They didn’t send me, Jac. I came. My letter, my word. I offered peace before the battle started, too, but your commander refused.”

“We found out from this.” He held up the arrow. “He said he’d see us all dead before he accepted peace from the likes of you, but we don’t want that. We burned his tent in his sleep and all those who agreed.”

“He fought from the back.” Arya said. “Only a coward would ask others to die for them and not fight himself.”

“You’re here.” Jac said. “You aren’t in the back. Greyjoy said you lot have no honor, but I don’t know if that’s true anymore.”

“What do you all fight for, Jac? What has she promised you?”

“Freedom. You Northern lot, with your different Gods and your different land, you don’t belong in the joined kingdoms. Neither do we, But you’re free and we’re not, and she said we could take our freedom.” 

“No reason to fight a war over it,” Arya shrugged, feigning comfort and ease. “I have no interest in bloodshed, and we have no stake in the Iron Islands.”

“Your brother would just give them up? Why? Robert wouldn’t.” 

“Bran and Robert have nothing in common. If he is asked and given good cause, my brother may well release the Iron Islands from the kingdoms. Has he ever shown any interest? Taxed you, been unfair? Has he ruled you in anything other than name?” Jac laughed bitterly.

“No, he hasn’t. I had three brothers a week ago. Now I have none. You say this was all wasted?”

“I am sorry about your brothers,” Arya said. “Yara Greyjoy has a vendetta against my family that I fear has nothing to do with the independence of the Iron Islands. She tried to send faceless men for me, she tried to frame my siblings for it. She acts as though the war is against us and not against the Kingdoms. I fear she started this, all of this, for reasons more personal than independence and I am sorry for what it has cost you. It doesn’t have to continue.”

“I don’t have the energy to continue. I’m tired. I have to go home and tell my mother-” Jac stopped, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly. “I don’t know if I can get the others to just give up and go home. We are all young and orphaned in the last war or old men with dead sons. We aren’t warriors, we’re barely sailors. All the salted men died with Daenerys or Euron. We are dying, all of us. We just want to have a home to go back to. She told us it could be like it used to be, Salt Kings and glory, food for our children, gold for our pockets, that we could grow old, that our sons could grow old. If that is what freedom is, I want it, Stark.”

“You do not go unheard. Greyjoy will face a trial in King’s Landing for her attempted murders, but I will ensure that the Iron Islands do not bear her punishment. I will raise the issue of independence with my brother.”

“You will?” he asked. “And how do I know you won’t go back on your word? Why should I trust you and your family of conquerors?”

“What were your brothers’ names, Jac?” she asked gently.

“Joren, Sam, and Wyll.” He said them slowly, like each name hurt him.

“Then I swear on the lives and memories of Joren, Sam, Wyll, and my own brothers, Robb and Rickon, who also died before their time in senseless war. I want this to end just as much as you do, Jac. I want to find a better way.”

“A better way? Anything is better than this. I can try to convince the others to listen.” 

“And I will try to convince my brother to release his claim on the Iron Islands. I cannot make any promise beyond that, I am sorry. But I will ask.” Arya said.

“That’s all I could ask of you. I’ll go and tell the others we should go home, take our brothers home.”

“Hurry, Jac. The Crown’s army is coming. Have the white flags raised before they arrive or they won't know not to attack.” Jac nodded.

“Thank you, Stark.”

\---

It was a day later that the white flag was raised in the Ironborn camp. A breath of relief washed through the castle, but there was still work to be done. Arya ordered that all the Ironborn dead within the walls were to be collected and respectfully wrapped in shrouds to be returned to their brethren. Some complained of the wasted cloth, but Lord Edmure silenced them. The dead deserved respect. Only honor could breed more honor. The fallen had paid enough, their families and their kin had the right to mourn with dignity. The gates lifted and the dead were brought out, carefully laid at the edge of the Ironborn camp. Rows and rows of white wrapped corpses lined the hills, stark against the green of the grass. Arya did not know if any among them were Jac’s brothers. The Ironborn lined up at the edge of the camp, heads lowered, receiving their dead. It was the Ironborn among Arya’s crew that delivered the fallen, for it was they that knew how to best treat them with respect. They knew the customs, the prayers. Not that the Drowned God could hear them this far from the sea.

The crew returned, telling Lord Edmure that the Ironborn would camp for another day, no more than two, just long enough to make their preparations, and then they would retreat. They would return to the Iron Islands and explain that they’d been heard and their claim for independence was heard by the Princess, soon to be heard by the King. 

\---

A great feast was held in Riverrun that night, they’d prepared for two years of siege and there was quite a lot of food left over. It was a raucous affair, ale and wine poured deep into the night. They were celebrating, after all. Arya was seated at the high table near her uncle, but escaped quickly, in search of Gendry. She’s not gotten to see him after the initial battle, he’d been in the forges and then directing the repairs. He was always so busy. 

“I’m sorry, uncle,” she had said, rubbing her shoulder where the arrow had grazed her. “My injury pains me, and the medicine from the Maester makes me sleepy, I must go lay down.”

“Of course,” Edmure said, looking concerned but waving her off. “Rest well.”

She spotted Gendry talking to Davos and caught his eye. She tilted her head towards the door, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. She left the hall, then,, walking toward her rooms. She paused in a dark corner, waiting to hear Gendry following her. She heard footsteps and smiled, knowing they were his. He was so tall and well built, his long stride and heavy footfalls were distinctive. She would always know them. She stepped out of the shadows to meet him, making him jump.

“Little tipsy are we?” she laughed, also swaying a bit on her feet.

“You’re sneaky. Always scaring the shit outta me.”

“You should expect it by now,” she said, pressing a kiss to his lips. He sighed against her, warmth and joy spreading through him before he remembered himself and pushed her gently away by the waist, looking around.

“Not here,” he said, his tone hushed. Arya nodded, leading him along the empty halls to her quarters. There were no guards to dodge, no servants to avoid. Everyone was at the feast. There was some sort of commotion far behind them, a lot of yelling, but Arya assumed that the drinking had gone too far and ignored it. Arya grasped Gendry tightly by the shirt collar and pulled him into her room, slamming the door behind her. She kissed him deeply.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What are you doing?” she replied against his lips. “Why are you still wearing clothes?”

“Weren’t we supposed to stop? When we got back to Westeros?”

“No.” Arya said, kissing him again. “No stopping.” she couldn’t stop if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. She chased his lips as he retreated, trying to gain the space to speak.

“But what about-”

“Don’t care.” she muttered against his lips, her hands roaming his chest. That was enough to convince him. He ripped his shirt off over his head and dropped it onto the table as he lifted Arya up by her waist and sat her on it. She laughed as he pulled off her boots, kissed him as he slipped her trousers off her legs. She spread her legs and drew him closer, grasping the back of his neck and holding him to her. She reached for the laces of his breeches but he stopped her.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” he said. “Your uncle’s house.” Arya scooted forward on the table, hooking her legs behind his back and pressing herself against him through his breeches. “Arya, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not. I missed you,” she moaned against his neck, the hot puffs of air sending shivers down his spine. “Can’t you see how much I’ve missed you? Can’t you feel it?” he could, as she rolled her hips against him. He’d missed her, too. He relented, then, and unlaced his breeches. There was no foreplay, no time to waste, just the desperate need to be together. They could have died without ever being together again. How had he let that happen? Arya buried her face in his neck, clutching his shoulders as he moved within her. She nipped at his throat as he pounded into her, trying to keep her moans quiet. Just over his shoulder, she saw movement. Her door opened. She hadn’t locked it.

“Shit!” she yelped, pushing Gendry away and squeezing her legs together. He started, confused, then registered the shock on her face. He turned to look, and saw Jon, red faced and fists clenched, stalking towards them. Arya covered herself with Gendry’s shirt, pulling it on as quickly as she could over her own, and Gendry frantically tied his breeches back up, trying to explain. Jon was not listening to his words, though. Gendry’s hands were still on the laces when the first punch landed. Gendry stumbled backwards, putting his arms up to block the barrage of punches Jon rained down on him. Gendry was larger, in a fair fight he would win, but he wasn’t fighting back. Jon was strong, and Jon was angry. Gendry’s face quickly became a mask of blood and bruised flesh. He fell to his knees, but the punches did not stop. 

“Stop it!” Arya screamed, pulling on Jon’s clothing, trying to get him away from Gendry. He didn't even feel her. She was quick. She dodged under his arm, placing herself between them. Jon’s arm was already swinging, and he couldn’t stop it in time. He didn’t even see her, he was so focused on Gendry. Arya hadn’t expected the hit to land, hadn’t braced for it. Jon’s fist connected with the side of her face and sent her sprawling to the ground. She went to catch herself with her injured arm and it collapsed under her, her face hitting the cold stone. Jon froze, but Gendry moved quickly to her, picking her up off the floor and pulling her to his chest. She clutched her face and glared at Jon, who gaped at her like a fish.

“Ar-”

“GET OUT.” She yelled, her eyes filling with tears. Jon turned, stunned, and stumbled towards the door. Edmure stood in the doorway, she noticed for the first time, and his face was stone hard. 

“Take Lord Baratheon to the Maester.” He ordered calmly. “Then assist him in packing. He is no longer welcome as our guest and will leave as soon as he is able.” Two guards rushed in, grasping Gendry underneath the arms and lifting him, pulling him from the room despite the grip Arya tried to keep on him. He did not fight them, walking out with them, but he held Arya’s hand as long as he could. 

Once they were alone, Edmure looked at Arya, more sadness than anger in his eyes, and he shook his head at her.

“Your mother would be so disappointed in you,” he said, “I’m almost glad she isn’t here to see you now.” He closed the door behind him, leaving her in the room, suddenly so cold and alone. As she sank to the floor, her bare legs on the cool stone floor, Arya fought the urge to cry. She’d just explain. Jon had overreacted, but he was just surprised. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what it was, what they were to each other. He’d understand. He would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am officially working on the last chapter now!!! Yikes!
> 
> P.S. I would die for Roslin Tully.  
> P.P.S. What the hell, Jon?  
> P.P.P.S. Gendry can not catch a fucking break


	18. The Choices We Make

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! There are mentions of canon sexual assaults this chapter, but any mention of them in this work will always be in a healing context. Ya girl does not use SA as a plot device. The mentions are not graphic and all reference events from the show canon.
> 
> If you do not want to read this chapter I totally get it, If you want to skip the portion of the chapter with the mentions, skip from the line "Well, before that, Stannis..." to the end of the scene and "I did. We were." to "I should have been there"
> 
> Thank you!

Sansa entered Jon’s quarters unannounced. It had been less than an hour since they’d all returned, just long enough for Sansa to pull the story out of Arya. Sansa threw the door open, slammed it behind her, and marched into the room to find him sitting in a chair, cradling his own head like he’d had too much to drink. He looked up at her, looking more pitiful than she’d ever seen him, but she felt no pity. 

“Are you mad?” she hissed.

“Sans-”

“Are you stupid?”

“Sansa!” he snapped. “Just leave me be, alright?” he dropped his head back into his palm. Sansa whacked his ear with the back of her hand, making a loud  _ ‘thwap!’ _ sort of sound. He started, looking up at her with his mouth hanging open. With his mouth open, she struck him with a closed fist, right in the teeth. It hurt her more than she’d expected, but she did split his lip a little, so she was satisfied.

“Ow, what the fuck?” he flinched. Sansa raised her hand to strike him and he caught her by the wrist. She struggled against him for a moment before raising her other hand, and he caught that one, too. “Sansa!” Jon cried. “Stop!”

“Why? Isn’t this what we’re doing now? Hitting each other?” Jon looked at her like she had struck him, again, and dropped her hands like they’d burned him. “Jon,” she said, softer now, sinking to her knees in front of him, “You  _ hit _ Arya.”

“I didn’t mean to!” he cried, “I just-”

“You meant to hit Gendry,” she said. “You shouldn’t have done that, either.”

“You knew?” He looked at her with anger, now.

“I knew… something. Not who, but I knew there was someone.”

“How could you let this happen?” 

“Let it happen? Jon, what are you talking about? What, did you have other plans for her? Were we going to marry her off, sell her for some allegiance?”

“Well, no-”

“Then why does it matter if she’s a maiden?”

“She’s our sister! Our  _ little _ sister. And he-”

“He did nothing wrong.” Sansa said. “Why did you attack him? I thought you liked Gendry? I thought you were friends.”

“I did. We were. But after- I swore I’d keep you safe, keep you both safe, and I saw- I didn’t know what I saw and I just-.”

“Gendry isn’t Ramsay.” Sansa said, and Jon flinched at the name. Sansa reached up to cup his cheek. “Arya was never in any danger, Gendry wouldn’t hurt her or force her. You know that. You know him.”

“I thought I did.” 

“She chose him. She got to choose.” Sansa’s voice grew tighter, now. “My choice was taken from me but-”

“Sansa,” Jon said, squeezing her hand. 

“Let me speak, Jon. My choice was taken from me. I was sold twice, and I cannot even count the number of times I was threatened. I didn’t get to choose, but Arya did. Arya got a chance I will never have and I will protect her right to choose who to love from anyone that thinks to rob her of it. Even you.” Jon began to cry, then, stroking Sansa’s face.

“I should’ve been there to protect you, Sans. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m safe now. I know you feel guilty, and I know you wish it had been different, but don’t take it out on Arya. Or Gendry.”

“She is really mad at me,” he sobbed pathetically.

“Yes, she is. Go talk to Gendry first, once she sees that he’s forgiven you, she will, too.”

“I’m still really, really mad at him, though.”

“Get over it.” Sansa said. “If I’m right, connecting the right dots, then this isn’t a fight you’ll win. You need Gendry on your side if you want Arya to forgive you.”

“Okay.” Jon sighed. “Alright. I just… I need some time to think about what I’ll say.”

“That’s good. Think it through. Don’t go in all mad and impulsive again. That’s how we got into this mess.”

Jon and Sansa sat for a moment, him brooding in his chair and her resting her chin on her crossed arms on his lap. 

“So…” Sansa started cautiously. “How much did you see, exactly?” Jon winced. 

“Far, far more than I ever wanted to.” Sansa’s eyes widened. 

“My gods, were they doing something adventurous?”

“Gah! No, not like that. Just Arya looking surprised and Gendry’s… bare arse cheeks.” he groaned as he said it, like it caused him physical pain to get the words out. Sansa laughed at him.

“Well let’s just thank the Old Gods and the New that you didn’t see Arya’s bare arse cheeks.” Sansa snickered, making Jon’s face scrunch up. 

“I don’t ever- Stop it. You’re making this worse.” Sansa shrugged.

“I’m just saying, perhaps now that we’re all adults you ought to knock on doors moving forward.”

“Fucking noted.”

\---

Gendry sat in his chambers the next morning, eating his breakfast. He’d started taking his meals in his chamber the last couple of days, not wanting to run into anyone. He felt rather paranoid, like all eyes were on him, but it seemed the only people that knew what had happened were those that were there and the Starks. He considered getting out of King's Landing as soon as possible, before the Starks had time to decide to kill him, but Arya had told him not to. Whatever happened, they weren’t finished yet. He took solace in that.

A knock came at his door, but it opened before he got a chance to tell them to come in. Sansa closed the door behind her, looking aloof and rather calm.

“Your Grace.” he said, standing. “What can I-”

“Sit” she ordered. He did. She walked about his room, rifling through his things. She noted the orderly manner he kept his quarters in. Jon’s, which she’d been in earlier, had clothing and weaponry strewn about the floor, papers littering every spare surface. Gendry’s laundry was all neatly folded in the wardrobe or placed into the basket. His bed was made, but no servants had been in this morning. She’d asked the guard, and he had said the only one that visited Gendry that morning was the one who brought him breakfast and he’d met her at the door and turned her away. He must’ve made the bed himself, she figured. His armor was neatly laid out on the table, and it appeared he’d been in the middle of cleaning it. It was meticulous, everything lined up just so. Sansa walked over to it, picking up a vambrace.

“Your Gra-”

“Did you make these yourself, Gendry?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I did.”

“Hmm.” she continued to walk around the room, lifting up this book and that paper. His eyes followed her around the room. His hands fretted nervously under the table. Sansa smiled. It was time to stop tormenting him.

“Jon should be here soon,” she said. “To apologize.”

“A-apologize?” Gendry asked.

“Yes, I do hope you can forgive him for his… brash reaction. He sometimes gets carried away with things.” She pulled out the chair next to his, sitting down in it before continuing. “I, however, am not so easily surprised.”

“You, uh... You knew?”

“I know she had someone. ‘After father but before the Red Wedding’, that’s one of the two hints she gave me to your identity. Now, tell me, where in that period did you meet?”

“The start.” he said. “We met the same day your father died.” Sansa nodded, satisfied with that although a little surprised.

“I’m glad Arya got to choose for herself,” Sansa said, “And she chose quite well, in my own opinion. I’ve lost two brothers, Lord Baratheon, and I truly never thought I would gain another. A good brother is close enough, I think.”

“Good brother?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes, Gendry. Good brother.” she rose and walked towards the door. “Don’t you want to know the other hint?

“Yes.” He said. Sansa smiled at him.

“That she loves you.” From the look in Gendry’s eyes then, Sansa understood why. She’d thought him a surly upstart, a friend of convenience at best, but at that moment his face was warmth and love, glowing with joy like a knight from a song. She wondered how she’d missed it. 

“We should spend more time together, Lord Baratheon,” she said, smiling. He nodded, smiling back, still too dumbstruck to speak properly. Sansa closed the door behind her.

“That went well, I think.” she said to Brienne.

\---

Gendry had a lot to process. Firstly, he was not about to be flayed by the Starks. Not Sansa anyway. Sansa was alright with it. More than alright, she was happy. She wanted him to be her brother. Gendry nearly cried, then, thinking about that. He’d never had a sister before. What was he meant to do? What did brothers do? Oh right. Brothers punched you in the face. He’d have to talk to Jon at some point, but it would be worth it because Arya loved him. She’d told Sansa as much. He wanted to find her, to tell her that he loved her, too, to see if she would tell him in return, but he had no idea where she was. He decided he would go look for her. When he swung his door open, though, he saw Jon on the other side of it, his fist raised. For knocking, this time. They stared at each other, too surprised to say anything at first.

“Uhhh… can we talk?” Jon asked. “Or I can come back if you were-”

“No, no, it’s okay, I was just… Come in” Gendry replied. Shit this was awkward. He should make a joke, ease the tension. “Are you going to hit me again?” he laughed, regretting it immediately.

“No, I just want to talk.” Jon said. Gendry walked over to his table, pulling a chair out for Jon and gesturing to it before sitting down in his own.

“Then talk.”

“Okay. Where to start?” Jon asked himself. “So, first off, I apologize for hitting you. I now realize that I overreacted. I am sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“I was surprised, and I care deeply for my sisters. Both of them. Certain… past events have made me a little, um, overprotective?”

“I understand.” Gendry could tell that Jon was choosing his words very carefully, which he appreciated. Jon had clasped his hands tightly in his lap, fretting with them, clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Gendry took note of the bruises and scrapes on his hands, the same sickly yellow shade as his own face.

“It’s just that… you were my friend and I trusted you and then you went and you put your cock in my sister, which I can’t believe I just said out loud, but I’m just really frustrated with your behavior and your lack of self control. Seriously, you’ve only known each other, what, six moons?”

“Six? What the fuck are you talking about?” Gendry asked.

“She got back six moons ago, you lot left for Vilinos five moons ago. How long did it take for you to start bedding my sister? Why did it have to be her? Weren’t there other girls around?”

“No others.” Gendry said. “Not since she and I- and it’s been a lot longer than five moons, mate.”

“How long then?”

“Try twelve years.”

“What?” Jon sputtered. “Twelve?” He got suddenly angry again. “How old were you twelve years ago? Fourteen, fifteen? What were you doing sniffing around an eleven year old? The fuck is the matter with you?”

“It wasn’t like that!”Gendry yelled. “We were friends, Jon! Just friends. We escaped King’s Landing together after your father was executed. We protected each other. She was a little girl and she needed someone. I was just a kid, I needed someone, too.”

“You… you protected her?”

“Yeah. As much as I could.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? When we met?” Gendry flinched, looking away. “Why, Gendry?” Jon demanded

“Because I thought she was dead, and I thought it was my fault!” he yelled. “She asked me to go with her and smith for Robb, and I refused. That red witch used my blood to cast some spell, she said Robb and Joffrey and Balon and all of them died. She used my blood to kill Robb and I thought Arya was there, too. I thought she’d used me to kill Arya. So no, I didn’t think it was a great idea to walk up to the King in the fucking North and tell him ‘you know your favorite sister? I loved her and I promised to protect her and I failed and now she’s dead and it’s my fault.’ I thought… I thought I could honor her by serving you, like she wanted me to serve Robb. I thought I could make it right.”

“She wasn’t dead, though.” Jon said softly, a little taken aback by Gendry’s outburst.

“Well I fucking know that now, thank you, Lord of the Obvious.”

“So in Winterfell, then...”

“When I saw her again, she was alive, and grown. And it was…”

“Different.”

“Yeah. Different.”

“So… after the battle then?” Jon said, slowly, in a pinched, pained voice, “I went and saw you, when you were with the Maesters getting your leg stitched, and I saw those scratches on your back that I knew weren't from the battle…” A blush began to rise up on both their cheeks. “I congratulated you on them, and you let me, and we laughed about it. Were they from… her?”

“Now, see, I can’t win here, Jon. If I say yes, then you know that I bedded your sister back then. If I say no, you’ll think I bedded someone else and that’s worse.”

“That’s a yes, then.”

“Yeah, they were from her.” He said. “I haven’t… I haven’t been with anyone since I found out she was alive, I swear. Not even when she sailed away and I thought I’d never see her again. I love her, Jon.”

“If you love her, why do you keep disrespecting her instead of marrying her like a man with honor? We’re both bastards, I thought I knew you better than that."

“You don’t think I tried? I asked her to marry me years ago and she said no.”

“You did? when?”

“The night Daenerys gave me my name.” Gendry said. “The first time I thought I had the right to ask.” Jon sighed.

“I am… I’m really out of things to be mad about.” Jon said. “Oh wait! Why didn’t you come clean and tell me about it when she came back and you two… started again?”

“Because you punched us both in the face, Jon.”

“Fuck, you’re right.” Jon sat there for a moment. “So, what happens now?” 

“I’ve got no clue.” Gendry said.

“We ought to find Arya. Let her know we’ve come to an understanding. Then she’ll stop hiding, and maybe she’ll stop leaving knives in my door.”

“She’s been leaving knives in your door?”

“Yeah, stabbed right in there. At least I hope it’s her, otherwise I have some other problems.”

\---

They’d all been hiding from each other. The trip back was so awkward, none of them said a damn word. Arya was so grateful for Roslin, who’d demanded Edmure let Gendry stay and leave with the rest of the army, threatening to escort him back to King’s Landing herself if he didn’t. Arya had also received a rather awkwardly written note apologizing for what he’d said about her mother. Arya was sure that was Roslin’s doing, as well. Roslin had proven herself a powerful ally, and Arya was grateful for it. They’d been on the road a sennight, marching back to King’s Landing, Jon riding a league ahead the entire time, still too pissed off to ride at any normal speed. Even when they’d set up camp, Jon had glared at Gendry every time he and Arya so much as spoke on the journey back, not that they got to speak with the short leash Davos had kept Gendry on. Jon was still too mad to see sense. He hadn't hit anyone again, but he might if he were antagonized. Or she’d hit him. 

Arya had spent her first two days back in King’s Landing as far away from the Red Keep as she could, drinking in the most disreputable tavern she could find. She wanted to go find Gendry, have a real chance to talk to him for the first time since leaving Riverrun, but she didn’t want to make things worse for him. She’d told him not to leave, that she’d work it out, but she was not entirely sure how to do that. Every time she looked at Jon’s sullen face she felt angry again, and she was sure that trying to talk it out would lead to another fight. She needed to wait for both her and Jon to calm down, then she’d just explain. She wanted advice, but the person she would usually go to about such things was the very person she wanted to throttle. In need of brotherly advice, and having only one brother left, futile as she knew it would be, she went to Bran.

She slipped into his tower, piles of books taller than she was littered the floor. Only Sam ever came in here, and Bran rarely left. He just sat here all day, doing his greenseeing or his warging, lost in history or watching through the eyes of another. When she entered, his eyes were white. She should have known he wouldn’t be here. He wasn’t Bran anymore, and she knew that. She just hoped there was a small piece left of the boy she’d known. The one who played with toy swords, who rode with her, who she always beat at archery, the boy who climbed without fear and always laughed. Bran didn’t laugh anymore. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked her as his eyes flicked back.

“Just wanted to be alone,” she replied.

“Good choice, then. It is quite solitary here.” he said, his voice flat as it always was. “Are you hiding, Arya?” Bran asked.

“No. I’d just rather be alone.”

“Greyjoy’s trial begins tomorrow. Will you attend?”

“Yes. Will you consider releasing the Iron Islands from the Six Kingdoms?”

“If it is what is best. Perhaps we will see tomorrow.” Arya rolled her eyes. She should have known better than to expect a straight answer.

“Where were you? Just then?” Arya asked.

“Sometime in the earliest days. I was watching a butterfly. It was a very important butterfly, I think.” Arya rolled her eyes again. It was easier to be annoyed than to mourn her brother even as he lived. Anger was her most familiar emotion, the one she reached for first. It was almost a comfort.

“And what makes a butterfly important?”

“Same as a man. Being in the right place at the right time. You, now, are in the right place. Is it the right time?”

“Can you just be my brother for three fucking minutes, Bran? Can you? Or are you only capable of talking nonsense and riddles?” She turned away, then, hiding the tears that filled her eyes. She’d hoped he would have advice for her, or some comforting words, at least. And all he had was some drivel about butterflies.

“Arya?” Bran said, waiting for her to turn around. She did, looking into his eyes, searching them. He stared back at her for a moment, intensely, solemnly, before continuing. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I just make shit up.”

A small laugh erupted from Arya’s lips, growing and growing larger still until she was doubled over laughing so hard that her stomach hurt and her cheeks burned and she could not breathe. Just then, Jon and Gendry burst into the room together, both of them looking puzzled.

“Ah, Jon, just in time.” Bran said flatly. “I was just telling Arya how embarrassed you were the first time you bedded a woman. And about the incident with the icicle.”

“What?” Jon gasped, “No, no, no!” Arya fell to the floor then, completely lost in her laughter, her vision entirely clouded by her tears, every indignant yell of Jon’s made her laugh even harder. She didn’t see the small smile that tugged at the corner of Bran’s mouth. He looked almost a boy again, almost a brother again, but she did not see. 

\---

Yara Greyjoy was not kept in the black cells as Arya had threatened. Sansa could not do it. Despite everything, the idea of anyone living in the cells that kept her father in his final days sickened her. They had been rebuilt with the rest of the Red Keep, nicer and cleaner than before, but it made no difference to Sansa. Yara was kept in a high room in the tower of the hand, the windows nailed shut and guards at the door. She was brought down to the small council chamber for the first day of her trial. It would be a private discussion of the events and an opportunity for Yara to defend herself. Gone were the days of public spectacles, trial by combat and quick executions for sport. Sansa had agreed not to attend. It would benefit no one if she and Yara just wound up screaming at each other again. It would only be Bran, Arya, Ned Dayne, Tyrion, Brienne, and Gendry there. Jon had also been asked to sit in as a witness, but demurred. He felt that, due to Greyjoy’s previous allegiance to Daenerys, he would also be an instigating presence. 

“Lady Greyjoy,” Bran said as she was seated and shackled to her chair in the council chamber, “We have brought you here today to beg an explanation. Why is it that you decided war was the only option available to you?” Bran’s voice was so calm, so dispassionate, it was nearly startling. It certainly threw Yara. She had come in expecting a fight, not whatever this was.

“Where is the other one?” Yara asked, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Sansa? Oh, she is not coming.” Bran said. “She is not your Queen, if you’ll recall. I find it interesting, then, that you are quoted as saying ‘once the Stark’s pawns have fallen, so will their tyrant Queen.’ No mention of the Stark King. Is it not I who serves a greater threat to your power?” Yara looked shaken.

“So it’s true what they say about you. It has to be, you wouldn’t know that otherwise. I was alone when I said that.”

“Alone with a spy, Lady Greyjoy.” Ned interjected. “It is important to me that you know. Astrid was not abused in my household, she was a spy we hired. Quite effective, wouldn't you say? Although her methods were a bit unorthodox.” 

“What?” Yara asked, her mouth hanging open. 

“Returning to the point at hand, Lady Greyjoy?” Arya asked. “Why begin another war?”

“I...I wanted independence for the Iron Islands.” 

“I am already in talks with our leadership on that matter,” Bran said, “But no thanks to you. It was the man that spoke terms of surrender at Riverrun that will be credited for bringing this issue forward.” 

“He did not need to murder anyone to get his voice heard.” Arya said. “Neither did you. But you wanted to. You wanted to hurt people. This man my brother spoke of, he is now his mother’s only surviving son. Tell me, why did his brothers have to die for you?”

“Just fucking kill me already,” Yara sighed. She sat proudly, though. Despite her words, she had not accepted death nor given up on life, she merely saw herself a martyr in the making. She stared Bran down over the table, daring, begging him to prove her point for her.

“No.” Bran replied. “We will not sentence you before we are satisfied with your answers. And know that execution is not the only option we will consider. You ought to know that my family has suffered greatly due to poor justice and I do not wish to continue that tradition.”

“Your family.” Yara scoffed under her breath.

“What was that, Lady Greyjoy?” Arya asked. “Care to speak up?”

“Your family knows nothing of justice. Your family should not be in power. You should not be King, your sister is no true Queen. You have taken the kingdoms through murder and you claim to seek justice? Where was this mercy for Baelish?”

“You don’t give a fuck about Baelish.” Arya said, rolling her eyes.

“No, I don’t. Where was this mercy for Daenerys, then?”

“Where was her mercy?” Gendry asked. “You’re a hypocrite. Even now, you’re calling the Starks murderers that don’t deserve power, but in the same breath saying that Daenerys should still live and be Queen? Daenerys, who burned her way through Westeros when its Lords would not kneel to her? For burning a city for DARING to surrender to her instead of welcoming her? You call the Starks conquerors and yet your loyalty lies with the most ruthless conqueror since her own ancestor Aegon. Do you hear it, Greyjoy? The irony?”

“We are all killers.” Bran said calmly. “Not one of us is free of blame. The crimes needed to survive in wartime are not permissible in peace. The war is over, Lady Greyjoy, your time for murder and conquest is long passed. We will see justice done, however, in the interest of good faith, I will not pursue the charges of treason. If the talks are successful and the Iron Islands become an independent kingdom, then it will not have been treason as I will not be your King. It will have been an act of war, yes, but we are already past that. Your Ironborn have already been defeated and have surrendered. They are at home while we discuss the precise terms of the peace. So, now that treason is no longer on the list of crimes you are to be tried for, how do you answer the others?”

“I answer not to you, boy.” She replied.

“Then answer to me.” Arya said. “As I would have been your victim twice, now, if you were a better murderer, I demand an explanation. Have we ever met before now, Greyjoy?”

“When you threatened to slit my throat in the dragon pit.” Yara bit out.

“I’d almost forgotten that!” Gendry laughed, slapping his thigh.

“After you threatened my brother. Surely you aren’t petty enough to start a war over harsh words? I can braid your hair as an apology as my mother made me do for Sansa when we were children.”

“Not helpful.” Brienne said, rubbing her brow.

“Have we met on any other occasion?” Arya continued.

“No.”

“And, aside from the Dragon Pit, had you ever met Bran or Sansa?”

“No.”

“So what could we have done to inspire such personal vitriol from you?”

“I am done here.” Yara said suddenly. “Take me back to my cell, I may be your prisoner, but I am the rightful Queen of the Iron Islands, not some common wench you can frighten. You will get no answers from me.” Bran sighed, but nodded, waving his hand to signal the guards. 

“Then we will speak further on the morrow, Lady Greyjoy.” he said. “And the morrow after that, if there is need for it.” Once she’d been led out, the table sat still for a moment.

“Well that was fucking useless.” Arya said, pushing her chair back with a screech.

“Be patient,” Bran ordered. “This is the first test of modern justice and we must see it done right.”

“Done right? We haven’t done anything! All she’s done is lie since she got here and nothing she can say will excuse her crimes, anyway! We know what she did, she knows what she did, why are we waiting?”

“Because for all of her lies, she spoke truly on one count. Our rule is young and none of the Lords have cause to trust us. This is our first chance to establish ourselves as just rulers, and that will not be through executions. We must broker a fair and lasting peace. This is not the time for your vengeance, Arya.”

“There’s never a good time.” Arya said, leaving. 

She was gone by the time Gendry could follow her out, and he did not know where to look for her, but knew that she would only be found when she wanted to be. For now, he left for Sansa’s chambers. She’d offered to spend time with him, and briefing her on the first day of the trial was as good an opportunity as any.

He knocked gently, three times, on her chamber door, ignoring the glare he got from the guard. A Northman, by the look of him. Of course he would be protective of Sansa. He didn’t blame the man. The door opened, and Sansa smiled broadly to see him.

“Gendry! Lovely surprise, come in.” She stepped aside and he walked in, looking around. “Please, sit.” she said, gesturing to a table. He sat across from her, where it appeared she’d been having tea. She fetched him a cup and poured tea, handing it over.

“Thanks.” he said, realizing he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to, to become her friend, but he had no idea how to do that. He was so grateful when she spoke first

“How did the trial go?” She asked, blowing delicately on her tea.

“It, uh… Pretty much nothing happened. Yara and Arya bitched at each other, Bran tried to be reasonable, Yara refused to answer any more questions.” Sansa nodded.

“That sounds about right,” she said. “I’m not sure any answer we get from her will ever make sense to me.”

“Nor to me.” Gendry agreed, hissing when he burned his lip on the tea. “I fear we may never understand what brought her to this. It seems she has made everything harder on herself, on the Iron Islanders. And I don’t get what her issue with you is.” Sansa shook her head.

“She thinks… Her brother, Theon, was fostered with us as children. That’s the nice word for it, anyway. His father tried to secede from the realm, too. They lost, and Theon was to be a hostage, to keep his father in line. We didn’t see it that way. We loved him, especially Robb. He was loud and annoying and much too familiar with every girl in Winter Town, but he was our brother. Yara thinks that we took him, that we are to blame for his death.”

“Theon Greyjoy died a hero, did he not? He held off the white walkers long enough for Arya to kill the Night King. Without him, Bran would have died and the battle would have been lost before Arya got there.”

“That is true. But Yara… She and I both wish he were still alive. We have that in common, at least. I believe she blames me most, because Theon returned to Winterfell to redeem himself for his past crimes there. She thinks he came back for me, but he didn’t. It was for him. He needed it, he needed to be able to forgive himself. He needed to make it right to Robb and to Bran and Rickon. He’d already been redeemed to me. He had nothing to prove to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Gendry said, “I’m sorry you lost him.” Sansa smiled sadly, none of it reaching her eyes.

“We have all lost people.”

“That’s what confuses me. She lost her brother, her whole family, I’m pretty sure, and she wants more war? I spoke with a war spirit in Vilinos, and, I didn’t understand what she said at first-”

“The war spirit was a woman?”

“I think she used to be. But she told me that no one hates war like a warrior. Great warriors will never want to relive their day of glory. I get that, now. I don’t ever want war again. I don’t even want a fight again. I just want… I just want quiet. What is wrong in Greyjoys mind that she seeks out more war?”

“That is a very good question. I fear we will drive ourselves mad trying to understand her. You, Gendry, you deserve quiet. A forge where you can do your smithing, your castle by the sea with Arya, tea and lemoncakes and peace.” Gendry laughed. 

“I’ve never had a lemoncake.” 

“Not ever?”

“No.” he admitted. 

“Well, that changes today. I can’t give you peace or justice at the moment, but lemoncakes are within my power. You and I, Baratheon. We are going to eat some fucking lemoncakes and pretend all is right with the world.” She went to the door and had a word with the maid in the hall for a moment before returning. 

“Do you think Bran will release the Iron Islands from the Kingdoms?” Gendry asked.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t.”

“Why? It’s not as though they hold great value. What do they contribute to the realm?”

“It’s not about what they contribute, it’s about what they take. They are a culture of raiders, and they subsist primarily by raiding the villages of the Western coast. If they were independent then the shipments of food the Riverlands send in exchange for not being raided would cease and any raids would be an act of war. They would leave us no choice. The Iron Islanders are far safer within the kingdoms, but they want freedom and they are stubborn enough to starve for it. And Greyjoy is bitter enough to let them.”

“Surely she is not so callous,” Gendry said. “She has to be reasoned with.”

“Perhaps before she might have been, but after? We can not trust that she is in her right mind or in any mind to be negotiated with.”

“If she can be reasoned with, is it not our obligation to see that it is done?” Gendry asked. “To ensure the peace at the cost of personal vendettas and pride?”

“If she will come to the table in good faith, I will talk. I am sure Bran will say the same.”

“I hope she does. It is a strange and dangerous person who would not.”

“The war did strange things to us all,” Sansa said. “Not one of us acted as we should have. We all became people we did not recognize and were not proud of. Arya sailed off into an empty sea away from anyone she knew after fighting for years just to come home. Jon bent the knee and fucked his- fucked Daenerys. I became such a cold, paranoid person. I scared myself. I almost had Arya executed when she first came back.”

“No you did not!”

“Yes, I know. In my defense, she was… suspicious.”

“You know about the faces?”

“My Gods!! The FACES!” Sansa exclaimed, grasping Gendry’s arm. “I’ve never spoken to anyone about this and it has been driving me mad! I found them under her bed when I was searching her chambers and she threatened to cut mine off and wear it!”

“What?” Gendry laughed. “She wouldn’t.”

“Oh yes she did! Ask her!” 

“Have you seen her wear one? It’s so weird.”

“I haven’t, but I suppose I wouldn’t know if I had.”

“Well, shit, you wouldn’t.” Gendry said, trying to remember all of her faces and if he’d ever seen them around before, watching. He couldn’t remember.

“Where is Arya, by the way?” Sansa asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. She left after the meeting and I haven’t seen her since. Sometimes I just don’t ask questions.”

“My gods, you’re perfect for her.” Sansa laughed. 

The servant returned with a small tray of lemoncakes, then, placing them on the table before bowing and leaving. Sansa placed one lemoncake on a plate, placing it in front of Gendry, then leaned forward, her chin on both hands to watch him eat it with unconcealed glee. Gendry picked it up, such a small squishy thing to make Sansa so happy. He looked at it a moment, supposing the bright yellow and tart taste of citrus would be a rarity up North, saved for special occasions. Good memories for her. Peace and lemoncakes, they were one and the same.

He took a bite, trying not to look boorish but dribbling crumbs down his front anyway. Sansa was right. It was really, really good. He began to laugh, his mouth still full with lemoncake. Sansa laughed, as well, reaching out and brushing the crumbs from his tunic. 

There they sat together, eating lemoncakes and talking about their lives, about Arya, mostly, until the sun set. Talking with Sansa was easier than Gendry thought it would be. For a moment, in the fading golden light, with Sansa’s laughter in the air and the taste of sweet lemon on his tongue, Gendry let himself relax to enjoy the moment. 

But for Gendry, this encompassing, smothering type of joy was always fleeting. A moment, a shining glorious moment before it cracked and the air was ripped from his lungs. His chest seized, he could not breathe, just shuddering, painful gasps, coming shallower and shallower until no breath came at all. He collapsed forward, burying his head between his knees, his ears ringing with the pounding of his heart. 

“Gendry!” Sansa yelped, rushing to his side. “Gendry? Oh gods.” Sansa grabbed his teacup, bringing it to her nose, looking for poison. “Try to breathe, Gendry, I’ll get help, I’ll get the Maester.”

“No.” he rasped, reaching out to grab her arm, sitting up just a bit. “I’m fine- It’s not- I’m alright. Don’t get anyone. Just-” He focused on his breathing like Arya had shown him. ‘ _ Breathe deep. Deeper. What do you smell? Lemon. Tea. Seaspray. Roses. What do you feel? Hot. Tunic’s too tight. Sansa’s grabbing my arm. Nails. Digging. What do you hear? Sansa. Breathing. Heartbeat. People in the hallway, people out the window. Open your eyes, what do you see? _ ” He saw, first, Sansa’s face. Her eyebrows were twisted together, concern etched into each of her features. 

“I’m alright.” he said again, taking a deep breath and nodding to himself. His heart was returning to normal, though his hands were still shaking slightly.

“I thought you were dying,” Sansa said softly. “You were not alright.”

“That happens sometimes. It’s better, now. That one was less intense than usual.”

“It happens a lot?” Sansa asked.

“Not too much. Just… just when I’m really happy, really calm.”

“Why?”

“In Vilinos, they call it the Survivor’s Disease. Some people who have seen bad things, their body remembers them. They have… episodes. Their mind and their body act as though they’re in danger again, they panic.”

“Is it… is it from the war?” Sansa asked. She’s had nightmares, and she’d had a great sadness, and she didn’t like to be touched except by those she really trusted, but never she’d never panicked like that.

“No,” Gendry said, “before. It happened for the first time before.” 

“Talk to me.” Sansa said, the gentleness in her voice broke him.

“I don’t- I’m not proud of it, Sansa. Any of it.”

“Then tell me and be free of it. I have lived more shame than anyone else can claim, Gendry, I don’t fear yours.”

“I thought- for years I thought Arya died with Robb. Between, between when we split up and when I met Jon, I lived here, smithing and hiding from the Gold Cloaks under their noses. There was a girl, she worked at the market where I bought my steel. She took a liking to me, and she was always coming around the smithy, so… so we… I really don’t think I should be talking to you about this.” Gendry said.

“You had a panic fit when fucking a girl?” Sansa asked. Gendry nodded, pained. “Why? You said your mind thinks you’re back in danger, what’s the danger in fucking girls?” Gendry grimaced again.

“Well, before that, Stannis bought me from the outlaws we were travelling with. He wanted to use my blood for some magic. It was King’s blood, so it was valuable. The priestess, she could have gotten it any other way, she could have slit my wrists or my throat, but she didn’t. She lied, made it seem like I was a guest, like I’d have a family and a home there. She gave me wine and a featherbed. Never had that before. She talked like she wanted me, made me feel wanted. I was warm and drunk and I felt safe. Then she tied my hands and when I couldn’t move she put leeches on me. I thought I would die. She tricked me. Safe one moment and facing death the next. Safety hasn’t felt safe since.”

“That’s horrible.” Sansa said. “I hadn’t known you were raped, Gendry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-.”

“No, I- What?”

“Well, if it had been a young girl lured to a castle with false promises, given drink, touched against her will and tied down to be bled, would you think it so?”

“Of course I would.”

“What? Do you not think it can happen to men?” Sansa asked.

“It’s just not a talked-about thing,” he said. “I was almost a man, six and ten, so everyone said I should’ve been grateful for the opportunity, they said they’d have given anything to be where I was. I hated it but I didn't think…”

“You’ve seen the horrors of Cersei and Daenerys with your own eyes, Gendry. You know that women have the same capacity for wickedness as men. Women scheme and murder and theive, why would rape not also be among the crimes of women?”

“Everyone I’ve told thinks I wanted it. They told me I should have just enjoyed it.” Sansa smiled sadly.

“They tell that to the women, too. It doesn’t mean you weren’t wronged, and it doesn’t make you weak.” 

“Didn’t think it did. You aren’t weak. I never thought that.”

“I know.” She said, brushing the hair off his face with her fingertips. “It took me a long time, but I am alright, now. I’m better. You’ll get better, too.”

“How do you know?”

“Tell me, have you ever panicked when you’re with Arya.”

“No.” he said. “Never.”

“Love is healing,” she said, “You can love and in time you will be able to trust, as well.” Gendry wondered if that were true. He dared to hope.

\---

As much as it disgusted her, Arya understood Yara. They had started in the same place at the end of the war, lost, but where Arya had healed, Yara had only festered. She was angry, but she was not mad. Arya wanted her to know where the path she took ends. She wanted privacy for this conversation, but knew it would not be granted through the appropriate channels. Yara had tried to kill her twice, neither Sansa nor Bran would allow her in to speak with her without guards present. It was best that they not know.

She decided not to just scale the wall and enter through the window. This would be irresponsible, as the tower was quite high and the windows were nailed shut. She’d despised the title of Lady, once. It had looked like a collar to her, binding, restricting every inch of her that stepped out of line. Princess, though. Princess she did not mind. Keera had shown her the power that lay with that title. Princesses did as they pleased. When she marched up to the guard and demanded Yara be brought to a private meeting room for another round of questioning, the guards did not question it. Though it was late and there was nothing scheduled, Yara was delivered to her. She would have to be quick, lest anyone seek out the prisoner as she had and find her missing.

The guards left, leaving Yara and Arya alone. Yara’s hands were unbound this time. Arya hoped she would take the gesture of good faith. For the first time since all this began, they were on even ground. There was no hiding behind plots or assassins or iron bars. They were two women, alone in a room. Anything could happen. The idea set Arya’s heart beating faster, not in fear, but excitement. 

“Why did you bring me here?” Yara asked, harsh and frowning. 

“To talk.”

“Then talk.”

“Why am I alive, Greyjoy?” Arya asked. “You hired the faceless men to kill me, did you not?”

“I did.” Arya nodded. She knew. She’d known since Cyrwyn landed in Vilinos, but it was good to hear it finally said.

“Then why do I live? Are they not the best?”

“They’re supposed to be.”

“And before that? Wasn’t I killed by the Lannisters? Or the Freys? Or the Boltons? I heard so many rumors of my death. Did you hear them?”

“I didn’t care about you, girl.”

“Ohhhhh.” Arya said smugly, pursing her lips. “But you do, now, don’t you?”

“Did you bring me here to gloat?”

“No, I brought you here to tell you how I lived. I did not die at the hands of the Lannisters. I escaped, I evaded them, I killed so, so many of their men. I spied on Tywin Lannister, poured his wine myself and read his letters and he never knew. I did not die at the hands of the Freys, I ended House Frey. I did not die at the hands of the Boltons because my sister ended House Bolton. I did not die at the hands of the faceless, Lady Greyjoy, because it was they who sheltered me and trained me.” Yara looked stunned. Arya placed a small raven scroll on the table, the one Jaqen had left with them. “An old friend brought me this, we laughed about it over tea.” A lie, but Yara would not know. “You think us children, you think our only power lies in our name, but you are wrong. Together we Starks could conquer anywhere we wanted. Anyone we wanted. We have more power, more allies, more strength than you will ever know.”

“Why are you telling me this? Are you going to kill me?” Arya rolled her eyes. 

“No. I’m not allowed to kill you. My brother seems to think there are better ways to secure a lasting peace in the Iron Islands.”

“Oh yeah? Like what? He will not find us kneeling simpletons like the rest.”

“No one expects to. He hopes to find an outcome that sees justice done and that no one can argue wasn’t fair. He will speak with the other Iron Islanders regarding their independence and hope his openness will inspire future malcontents to come directly to him instead of sending assassins.”

“So I am a show dog? To make your brother look like a fair king?”

“To prove that he is. Justice is justice, mercy is mercy, just because he also gains from it doesn’t mean that you don't.”

“Why am I here?”

“You don’t listen well. Let me explain again. Ten years ago, my parents were dead. Robb was dead. Theon had betrayed us. Jon was at the wall and no help to anyone. Sansa was a child and a prisoner. Bran and Rickon were presumed dead. I was alone, in the middle of a war, and I was angry. I kept trying to find people, people to take care of, people to care about, and they all died or left.”

“I care not for your sob story, Stark.”

“And I care not for your sympathy. You’re a prisoner, do you have anywhere else to be? Shut up and listen. I had this list. It helped me sleep at night, thinking that I could kill everyone on it, everyone responsible for the pain I felt. The last name got crossed off four years ago. Do you know what happened?” Yara just glared back at her. “Nothing. The pain was still there, the rage was still there, and I wanted to add more names. It was a comfort, having an enemy, someone to blame. When that was gone, when it was just me and my memories, I wanted to die. It took years to understand that. Vengeance is a slow poison, but it kills.”

“Is this you begging for your life?”

“No, this is me telling you to abandon vengeance and live yours.” Arya said. “Kill me if you want, but in the end you’ll know I was right. It won’t fix anything. It won’t bring Daenerys back or undo the damage she did. It won’t bring Theon back.”

“Do not say his name.” Yara warned.

“Why? He was my brother, too.”

“He wasn’t, you stole him.”

“I did nothing, I wasn’t even born yet when Theon came to live with us. I never knew a Winterfell without him. He was my brother, same as Robb and Jon. I never knew any different. Does it make it easier or harder to hate us, knowing that we all loved him? Does it make you angry to know that he loved us back?”

“He didn’t know better. He was a boy and a captive who loved his jailers because there was no one else to love. He should never have been used like that.”

“Now I agree with that part. It was distasteful of Robert to order a boy of ten be taken as a hostage. Although Robert wanted to keep him in the black cells. Or so I’m told. I’ll remind you, I was not yet born. We did not incite your father to uprising or kill your other brothers. We did not convince King Robert to order a hostage be taken. We were not responsible for him being brought to Winterfell. All we did was love him as a brother, is that so wrong of us?”

“Even after he burned it down? Killed those boys?” Arya sighed. 

“He made a mistake. He knew it.”

“I told him he shouldn’t’ve done it.”

“Mistakes are often so clear in hindsight. Do you now see the error of your own judgement?” Yara glared at her again.

“What error? That I sent the faceless instead of doing the deed myself?

“If you wanted independence for the Iron Islands, the Dragon Pit was the best place to demand it. It likely would have been granted. So why didn’t you? Were you too proud to follow after Sansa?” Yara rolled her eyes. “No, no, that isn’t right. If you’d have just asked and had it handed to you, the islanders would not respect you. You had to take it. And hurting Sansa, well, that was just a benefit.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know plenty of things. I know that Theon spent his last night with Sansa, that there was nowhere either wanted to be more. I know he spent his last moments protecting Bran, that he volunteered for it and died to save him.”

“Shut up, Stark.”

“I know that Theon lies in our crypts. I attended his funeral. You didn’t. You were off doing… where were you?”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve been fighting useless fights for years. Daenerys is dead, same as her Mad King father and you cannot tell me the world isn’t safer for it. It was a nice idea, a woman come to set everyone free, but that wasn't so. She broke the wheel and became the hammer, crushing whoever she saw fit. She burned Lord Varys for treason, did she not? Because he saw her madness in its early stages?”

“I’m warning you, Stark.”

“Great, I’m warned. You’ll find my brother’s justice much more fair than Daenerys’s, I guarantee it. Men have died for your little crusade, Greyjoy. Thousands of them and not one Stark. You are fighting a losing battle again but no more need to die to appease your vengeance. More dead islanders will only add to your guilt and dead Starks will do nothing to end your grief and pain. If you keep going as you are, you will be left with only more and more dead until you are alone. Move forward, build a better Iron Islands. Make them safer and take your pride in that, you will be much happier for it. Forget us and move forward.”

“I will never return to the Iron Islands.” Yara said. 

“Perhaps not.” Arya said. “Perhaps there is no way that you win. You may never see the Islands again, you may never see them free and independent. But know that this is your own doing, not ours. Your chains, your cell, your charges, you brought these on yourself. The Iron Islands could have been independent years ago if not for your selfishness. You are the only one at fault for those fallen in Riverrun. Do not lay that blame at our feet, Greyjoy. Those are your dead. Your choices, your revenge, your failure. Take the night and think on what I’ve said, Greyjoy. Look where your quest for vengeance has brought you. You can sink a lot lower than this. Do you want to see how deep the pit goes?” 

Arya called for the guards, then, who returned Greyoy to her cell. Sitting alone in the darkened meeting room, Arya thought about what Karris had said to her. She was not irredeemable, so Yara Greyjoy must not be, either. There is no end to a quest for vengeance, there is only that place you stop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously considered breaking this up into several chapters, just the amount of scenes is a little much. But oh well.


	19. The World We Build

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to go through and edit the entire story once it's finished and fix some small errors, one of which being that I forgot to mention Cyrwyn since they were in Starfall. He's been with Arya the whole time, I should mention him from time to time so we all know that. 
> 
> Fair warning: if anyone ever re-reads this fic there may be small changes. less typos for sure.

“Everyone calm down!” Brienne yelled

“We ought to kill the bitch and be done with it!” Bronn yelled, slamming his hand down on the table. The decision to bring the rest of the small council into the trial meetings was not a popular one, but they had demanded to be included and they did have the right. Everyone involved gathered in the meeting chamber, save for Greyjoy herself, although she might well be able to hear the yelling from her tower cell.

“This is war!” Tyrion yelled, trying desperately to be heard. “This cannot be handled with kind words and fluffy feelings! You are children and you do not know how to handle these-”

“The fuck I don’t!” Arya yelled over him, “I’ve done more fighting than you-”

“Fighting is not war! Thinking is war and you do not think!”

“She knew what she was doing when she started this shit, I say we kill her and put those shit stained rocks back in line.” Bronn said again.

“This isn’t about war, we won the battle, the Ironborn retreated, this is about peace!” Gendry said. 

“Gendry is right, the manner in which we handle this rebellion will-” Bran started, but was interrupted.

“If they fear us well enough, they’ll keep the peace.” Bronn yelled again. “Let’s give them something to fear.”

“You will heed your King!” Ned Dayne bellowed, slamming both hands down on the table repeatedly, hard enough to shake the glasses on it. The room fell silent. Ned had gone red faced, though most were from all the yelling. He huffed and brushed his hair out of his face. “As you were saying, Your Grace.” 

“Thank you, Lord Dayne. This is the first major crime and trial of my reign. The eyes of the realm are on us and what we do in this moment will affect how the future sees us. This is not wartime, we cannot end houses on a whim. The Islanders are proud people who have lost much already, they will not take kindly to their liege house being killed off. If we kill her, we are as merciless as those we fought against. I will not kill her and have the islands rage against us, have the Lords of the realm believe we will kill anyone who crosses us. I will not rule through death and fear. I will not have it.”

“Then what are we to do?” asked Brienne. “If we cannot kill her how will we see justice done? Banishment? The wall isn't much of a viable option anymore and she’s a woman, besides. A life in prison would be worse than death.”

“Who says we need to do anything?” Gendry asked. “She tried it, she failed. If we are sure she won’t try it again, why do we need to do anything? The Ironborn lost a hundredfold more men than we did. That is more than payment enough.”

“We cannot let the bitch walk away without seeing justice done, boy.” Bronn said.

“That is the Lord Paramount of the East you address, sellsword.” Davos warned. 

“We’re all bastards and lowborn shits raised above our station here, then, aren’t we? We cannot allow ourselves to look weak. We cannot allow our enemies to prosper for their treachery. Justice must be done.” 

“The only true justice is peace. Anything else is just pride. Do you need to see her flogged, a walk of atonement, begging on her knees? What will that achieve? It doesn’t fix anything.”

“If she can commit treason and walk away unscathed, what is to dissuade others when their ambition gets the better of them?” Tyrion asked.

“What’s stopped them before? Treason was a sure execution before and that never stopped anyone. It didn’t stop you! What if there was a better way for them to get their needs met? What if they had a reason to believe that the crown would hear them? Then there would be no uprisings, just a shitload of ravens.”

“That would be ideal, Lord Baratheon,” Bran said. “If we could be certain that there would be no more uprising from her, then I feel her punishment has already been great. To be the last of her house, to be responsible for the death of her own men, this is more punishment than I could ever give.”

“Aside from Greyjoy’s sentence we still face the issue of independence.” Sansa sighed. 

“What issue is that?” Bronn asked. “Either put the islands in line or cut them loose, it’s not fucking complicated.”

“It is.” Sansa argued. “If an independent nation raided our villages-”

“Our villages, Your Grace. Not Northern villages. Why are you here?” Bronn said. Arya’s head snapped towards him, her glare would send smarter men running.

“Not only is Flint’s Finger within the range of Ironborn ships and a part of the North, but my sister is as much a Princess of the Six Kingdoms as I am, in addition to Queen of the North. She may involve herself in Southern affairs as much as she sees fit,” Arya hissed. “As you were saying, Sansa?”

“If an independent nation raided  _ our  _ villages,” she said, lobbing a steely glare at Bronn, “then we would be forced to take that as a declaration of war. If we granted the Iron Islands independence, we would be back at war with them within the year. Certainly by winter.”

“But if we do not grant independence, they will always hold that against us and we are at risk for another uprising anyway.” Gendry said, rubbing the tension out of his brow. 

“It may be an unhappy peace, but at least it will be peace.” Sam said.

“Yes?” Gendry said, “for how long? The Ironborn rebellions keep coming, keep getting closer and they get more desperate each time. The peace will not last if we hold the Ironborn against their will.”

“Well if there’s no good option we might as well kill her.” Bronn offered again.

“Speak again and I will pull your tongue out through your neck.” Arya said.

“If it’s about the food, we have options-” Gendry said.

“Their words are ‘we do not sow’, My Lord.” Sam said. 

“Those are the Greyjoy words. We’re talking about the Iron Islands, not House Greyjoy. I’ve met Ironborn, lived with them on the ship, worked with them to prevent this war, fought alongside them. They are not all raiders. You make an error in assuming they are all the same.”

“This is sounding very close to a proposition, Lord Baratheon,” Bran said.

“It’s not. Yet. I’ve got to think on it. But there is another option here, I know it. I just need more time to think on it.”

“Very well.” Bran said, “Yara Greyjoy will be questioned again in the morning, you have until then.”

\---

Finally dismissed from the meeting that had stretched through two meals and accomplished nothing, Gendry made for the library. As much as he wished to go sit with Sansa or Arya or to go pound steel in the smithy, he had to wrap his mind around the half formed thoughts. He wasn’t sure what to look for, but he knew he needed to start somewhere. He sat at a table in the back, away from anyone else. Grabbing a sheet of parchment, he scrawled ‘ _ Independent Iron Islands _ ’ across the top. He made a list of all the problems that would prevent a peace from lasting. Raiding, food. Food was the biggest problem. If the Iron Islanders could not feed themselves, then they would raid or starve. If Gendry solved the food problem then he would have his solution. 

So. Food. The islands don’t have good soil. The islands can’t grow enough food. The islands need the mainland. The Westerlands and the Riverlands, mostly. Those were closest. Those lands already grew the food the Iron Islanders ate, so what if… What if the Iron Islanders owned a part of the mainland? There were so many dead houses after the war, surely some sat empty, unclaimed. The islanders didn't even need to become farmers, those people that already lived there and grew the food would be their subjects, under their protection. 

Gendry rose, quickly, gathering his things and rushing off to find Tyrion Lannister. He would know which seat sat empty and they would need to have his permission to grant lands to the Iron Islands. He would do it though. If Bran and Sansa asked. Gendry entered the tower of the hand, climbing the stairs to the Hand’s private solar. He knocked politely but got no answer. He knocked harder, then grew to pounding on the door, shaking the lanterns hung to the side of it.

“By the Gods, What?” came the call from inside. Tyrion pulled the door open harshly, glaring at Gendry. He looked as though he’d just awoken. “What do you want, Baratheon?”

“I need your help. It’s still daylight, why were you sleeping?” he asked, pushing his way inside. “Have you got a map?”

“Of course I have a map.” Tyrion said. 

“Show me which houses died in the war,” Gendry said, “show me which castles sit empty.” Tyrion groaned but spread the map on the table anyway. He looked up at Gendry and huffed annoyedly. 

“I am quite accustomed to people being taller than I am, Lord Baratheon, but you do seem to be rubbing it in.” 

“I do not have time for your quips, old man.” Gendry said. “Show me the houses.”

“Old man? That’s new.”

“The houses, Lannister.” Tyrion sighed and grabbed a handful of small rounded stones from a bowl on the table, placing them around the map. 

“House Serret. House Clegane. House Banerfort-”

“That one. No one owns it? The castle sits empty?” The Banerfort lands were closest to the Iron Islands, jutting out as if to meet them.

“No one. Quentin Banerfort, the last Lord, died in the siege of King’s Landing and left no heirs. No one has given a claim, and we haven’t sought one out.”

“Do you need these lands?” Gendry asked. “Are they important to you? To the Westerlands?” 

“No, not particularly. Why, what are you planning, Baratheon?”

“Well, the main issue with granting the Ironborn independence would be food, right? They’d raid towns, these towns. What if we granted them the lands, the farmers there would be citizens of the Iron Islands and produce the food they need, no need for raiding.”

“The farmers would be slaves.”

“Perhaps they would be if the power was centralized on the Islands, but we will grant them their own power, their own protector. What if we position a Lord here, give them the Banerfort seat, and they are responsible for ensuring the safety of the food supply and that of the farmers? Any acts of aggression against the farmers and they and their lands return to the Six Kingdoms, leaving the Iron Islanders without food and the farmers under our protection. This Lord would be a check to the Greyjoy’s power, the power of all the raiders. Food is a power even the strongest man must heed.”

“And who do you suppose will do it? It would have to be an Iron Islander or they would not accept him, Greyjoy could easily turn the Islands against him and seize the food. It cannot be an Islander because none of them would stand against Greyjoy. What Islander would be loyal enough to the Crown to return to the Six Kingdoms in the event of maltreatment?”

Gendry had an idea. 

“I know a man.” he said. “Loyal as they come, and not afraid of Greyjoy. He’s the one who brought the plot to Arya in the first place, betraying Yara to do it. He’s an ass but he’ll protect the farmers and keep the Greyjoys and the other Ironborn houses in line.”

“Alright.” Tyrion said. “If you say so. Look, the Westerlands are not as wealthy as they once were, more mouths to feed, more villagers to protect, that all costs money. I would not be opposed to changing some land borders around. If it helps the peace, then even better.”

“Good!” Gendry said. “So we give the Banerfort territory to Cyrwyn-”

“House Cyrwyn? They’re already Lords.”

“No, his first name is Cyrwyn and he’s baseborn. Don't know his last name. We’ll need it for the declaration, though. So we elevate him to Lord, grant that territory to the Iron Islands and grant them independence? Is it that simple?”

“No, it’s not.” Tyrion said. “We need some sort of insurance against further rebellion. They could seize the food supply and make it impossible to take back. They could execute this Cyrwyn and plant their own patsy in his seat. We need some measure to ensure that doesn’t happen. A trial period.”

“Trial? Haven’t we had enough of those?”

“We offer a contract. No complaints of abuses, raiding, wife stealing, any of that Ironborn shit, against the new territory or the Six Kingdoms, then we grant independence. Make them show us they are capable of sustaining a peace.”

“How long?” Gendry asked.

“What is fair? Ten years? Long enough for them to figure it out, get through a winter or two, long enough for men to grow up with the new world order. Long enough for it to become a new way of life for them.”

“Ten years.” Gendry said. “That seems a fair bargain. They’ve waited hundreds, they can wait ten more.”

“Aye, they can.”

“Can you- Can you write it up?” Gendry asked. “Make it sound smart? Make sure there aren’t any oversights that could be taken advantage of? I’m not so good with words, I-”

“Making things sound smart is what I do, boy.” Tyrion said. “If the king approves it and you can convince Greyjoy to sign the damn thing, we may put this mess behind us. Although I am not entirely comfortable putting a rebel right back into her position of power.”

“Why?” Gendry asked. “You were a rebel and you got to be hand of the king.”

“I won.”

“No, you didn’t.” Gendry said. “You backed Daenerys, remember? You and Yara were on the same side in that. But you’re free and she’s not. We can’t pick and choose who to punish for crimes in a war long over.”

“Those are not the crimes we are punishing her for,” Tyrion argued. “It is her new crimes for which she faces judgement, now.”

“Her attempted crimes. Failed attempts. The rebellion was not hers alone but belongs to all of the Iron Islanders. If the Iron Islanders are granted independence, then the rebellion is not a crime at all. No one called it a crime after Robert won his rebellion.”

“No, they didn’t. They just called him “Usurper” and plotted against him. The last time the Greyjoys rebelled he didn’t stand by, he killed the heir and the spare, then took the third son as a hostage.”

“Fat lot of good it did. If he had been less of an angry drunk, maybe the Islands wouldn’t have rebelled a second or a third time. I don't’ care what he did or what he would have done, he’s dead and I’m not him. Fuck Robert Baratheon, fuck our pride, fuck what we think justice is. If Greyjoy’s freedom is the cost of lasting peace then may she travel safely home, I wish her well.”

“You’re not angry, Baratheon?”

“I am angry, believe me, but what is my anger against the good of the realm? She almost killed me and many I care deeply for, but I’ve forgiven worse. I’ve been sold for the slaughter and then I fought alongside the men that did it, protecting their lives with my own. My anger is mine, her guilt is hers, I have no need to see her and the realm hurt to appease me.”

“Perhaps you ought to change your house words, Baratheon.”

“Perhaps I ought.” What good had fury ever brought these dead men, anyway?

\---

The papers clutched tightly in his hand, Gendry marched through the halls further up into the tower of the Hand. Could Arya see him, she would tease his heavy footfalls and the racket he made, each step echoing off the stone walls. When he reached Yara Greyjoy’s door, the guards were waiting for him. Of course they were, they’d long heard him coming. 

“I’ve business to discuss with the prisoner.” Gendry said. The guards stepped aside, letting him into the room before locking it behind him. It was after dark, and the room was dimly lit. Greyjoy sat on the floor, her head leaned back against the wall.

“There’s a perfectly good chair.” Gendry said. Yara shifted stiffly, she’d been nearly asleep. 

“Don’t want it.” she said. “Don’t want to get too comfortable.”

“I’ve come to offer you a deal,” he said.

“No deals.”

“You’ll want to hear this one.”

“Why?” she said, pushing further upright and glaring at him. “Either I live so that fucking child King who’s never done a thing of note beyond being born can feel good about himself or I die with my dignity, taking a Stark or two out with me. That’s the only way this ends. No deals.”

“Why? What good will killing Starks do?” he asked. “Why do you hate them?”

“Someone’s got to pay. Why not them? Smug little winners with their crowns of lies. You were just a bastard before Daenerys, why do you care about them? They wouldn’t have given a shit about you.”

“How can you hate people you don’t even know?” Gendry asked. “They cared for me before I got a name. Daenerys gave it to me only to have an ally in Storm’s End, but I’d been loyal to the Starks well before her. She thought she could buy me, but a Stark loved me when I was a just bastard blacksmith, before Daenerys and her dragons ever came to Westeros.”

“A Stark loved you?” Yara scoffed. “Which one? Queen Sansa? Using her pretty little tits to lead you along like she did all the others?” Gendry shook his head.

“You sound like a man, and the worst of them at that. Sex is not the only route a woman has to power, you ought to know that. Don’t you? If you don't… well… the judgement is a little hypocritical, no?” Yara glared at him. “I’m not here to exchange insults. I’m here to offer you a way out of this.”

“You want to give me a quick way out? Slit my throat and let me go to my brothers.”

“No.” Gendry said. “Is that why you’re doing this? Pushing forward even though you know you’re wrong to? Did you start a war hoping we’d kill you so you didn’t have to kill yourself?” Yara flinched. “I don’t think anyone lived through the war and never considered that dying would be better, but I haven’t met anyone else who wanted to take innocents with them.”

“What innocents? The Starks have more blood on their hands than any other.”

“Not the Starks, your own people! The Ironborn. Of all men you ordered to Riverrun, less than half returned. I killed my fair share, and I bear that guilt, but their deaths are on you, too. Their children are orphans, their wives are widows, their mothers will weep for them, and it is your fault. A man- a person, sorry, has the right to kill themselves if they want to, but no one gets to take innocents with them. Look, I have a deal here that lets you go home, that restores House Greyjoy and grants Independence to the Iron Islands. This is everything you could ever want and more than you deserve.”

“Then why are you offering it?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. A thing too good to be true always was. The world had held no favors for Yara Greyjoy before, she had never been lucky, and she did not trust well.

“It’s not about you. This is about peace. I need it, we all need it. Greyjoy, I’m tired. I’m tired of running, I’m tired of fighting, I’m tired of nightmares and guilt and waiting for the next battle. We have a chance here to put an end to all that and I won’t let you ruin that chance for me. You and the Iron Islands are part of the peace, so just take it. Take it and go home, go home and stay there, rebuild your house, raise sons and daughters in a world without fear. Take it.”

“I don’t know what to do without war anymore,” she admitted. “I was raised for war, not peace. I don’t know how to die if not in battle.”

“Old age, maybe? However you die, it won’t be here, not by my hand or a Stark’s. Go home, Greyjoy.”

“And what would I have to do?” Yara asked. “Give up my firstborn as a hostage? Pay reparations we can’t afford? Send my army to the crumbling wall? What will your peace cost?” Gendry took a deep sigh.

“None of that. Lannister is willing to part with the Bannerfort lands, grant them and their citizens to the Iron Islands. You’ll be able to grow all you need there, no more need for raiding food. The villagers will be Ironborn, under your protection. We’ll put an Ironborn lord in place in the old Bannerfort seat to see to the fair treatment of the villagers. Independence will not be granted right away. For the first ten years, the kingdoms will support the transition, both financially and diplomatically. If there are no complaints of maltreatment, wife stealing, raiding, any more assasination attempts, then the Iron Islands will be a free and independent kingdom at the end of ten years. Is that something you can live with?”

“Ten years is a long time.”

“No it isn’t. Fifty would be fairer, and plenty would love to have you work your whole life towards freedom and die before you can see it done. Take the ten.”

“I cannot just be given a crown. I am Ironborn, and we pay the iron price.”

“It’s not a present. This is a deal, a ceasefire. If it pleases you, you can go home and tell the Ironborn you demanded the Bannerfort lands, that you had the upper hand here and we had no choice but to restore you. Tell them what you must, just take the deal. You won’t be offered another. Not by anyone else.”

“Why you, then?” she asked. “Why are you here with your deal? What do you have to gain?”

“Nothing, but I have everything to lose.”

“Are you weak? Do you fear us?”

“I fear only myself.” Gendry said honestly. “I have known fury, I have been a fighter and a killer and I thrived in that darkness. If the time comes that I must, I will kill every enemy that crosses my path, but that is not who I want to be. I want quiet. I want a child born in the Stormlands today to never know hunger or war. I am skilled at death and destruction, but I crave peace. It is not weakness to forgive, to move forward. Pride is corruption, pride is a sickness. I am without pride, standing here offering you your home back, offering to forgive you for trying to kill me and those I love. Are you too proud to accept it? Who is weak, then, tell me?”

“I was raised to be bold. I was raised to take what I want and damn the consequences.”

“Whoever raised you is both wrong and dead.” Gendry said coldly. “If we were judged by the sins of our fathers none would be guiltier than I, but at least I never knew him. The rest of you, you sat on the laps of these old men, you listened to their stories and their lies and you saw glory in their blind stubborn pride. I always knew all the Lords were full of shit, but you... you were taught about honor by dishonorable men, taught of courage by men to craven to admit their wrongs. Their way brought only death, to them and to the realm. If you take their lessons as truth and not a warning, you will soon find yourself alone in the world or dead along with them. There aren’t enough of us left to keep killing each other, revenge for revenge, death for death, on and on forever. It has to end.”

“It is easy for you young people to talk of change.” Yara said. “Not so easy when you’re as old as I am.” Gendry scoffed.

“You’re not old. You’re just scared. We’re all learning here. This is new to all of us. We learned how to survive and we did what we had to, but that isn’t what we need anymore. Nothing that worked on a battlefield or in a war room has a place now. You cannot look at everyone as the enemy anymore. We’re not.”

“You’re not lying, are you? There’s no knife in your sleeve?”

“No tricks, no lies, no better options.”

Yara leaned back, settling against the wall again, crossing her arms and closing her eyes.

“We’ll speak in the morning, Baratheon.” she said.

“That isn’t an answer. Do you accept this offer?”

“The morning.” Gendry huffed and slammed the door behind him.

He’d spoken his peace, and he hoped he was heard. Let her think on it for the night. It was an offer only a madman would refuse. Yara wasn’t truly mad. She was not Daenerys, she was not Cersei. Speaking with her, Gendry was most reminded of Beric. Many said he was mad, that he was wrong for what he did, but Beric Dondarrion had absolute confidence in his mission, that what he was doing was right. Yara had that confidence once, but it was shattering. It’s easier to hate an enemy like the Lannisters, he thought. In Harrenhal, they’d crushed a child’s skull for crying, then killed the mother when she cried for him. They’d raped and tortured and brutalized, Gendry had no choice but to hate them. Yara had a bed and warm food offered, but she slept on the cold floor, hoping her self-imposed misery would fuel her. She would accept no mercy, lest she feel grateful. She would accept no kindness, lest she acknowledge that her captors were kind. The offer was not a trick, although he wasn’t sure he would trust it if he were in Yara’s shoes. He only hoped she would take it, and in the morning he would see.

What would happen if she didn’t, he wondered? Would Bronn win the day and execute her? Would the Islands revolt again, their liege house extinct? Would they keep her in prison in the tower until she grew old and fully mad? Gendry had heard tales of a woman during the war, a prisoner forgotten in a tower, who had grown so hungry and desperate she ate her own fingers. And what of exile? What plots would she hatch, what allies would she acquire? She could go find Daenerys’s old allies in Essos and return to kill them all, a full war and this time against seasoned soldiers, not green boys and old men dragged from their homes on false promises. This was the only way. If Yara did not sign the papers he clutched too tightly in his hand, Gendry was sure not he would ever be able to sleep soundly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter is done!! It took 3 weeks to write (most of which I was procrastinating bc I don't actually want this story to end), but it is done. I'm going to do some edits and release it next Saturday. Oof. You guys. We're almost done.


	20. Will We Grow Old?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone that has read this story, Thank you! This fic has been a labor of love and has made me get back into writing, so the support from you all is appreciated more than you can know. I will continue to write and post on AO3. I have another project I am starting that will begin to roll out in the next couple weeks. I've been writing this (and only this) for so long now it feels like an old friend, I'm going to miss it. 
> 
> Thank you all for the readership, the comments, the kudos, and for sharing this experience with me.
> 
> If you want to follow my writing more, I'll be posting a preview of my next project on my Tumblr @hunting-ataraxia. If you send me prompts I might write them, if you ask me questions I will definitely answer. 
> 
> Thank you!

The council gathered once more, and each of them hoped this would be the final time, for they were weary and wanted an end to it all. Sansa and Jon were both present, and the four siblings made an intimidating sight all together, spines straight and faces hard set in the expression they’d all learned from their father and imitated in the worst of times, perhaps praying it would lend them his quiet strength. Their display did not rattle Greyjoy, though, who stood tall as her chains dragged behind her on the stone floor. She walked with an easy confidence, hips swaying and mouth tightened into a sly smile. In her spirit, at the core of her, Yara Greyjoy was bold above all else. She sat across from the Starks, her chin lifted to meet their gaze. If not for the chains on her, one would be forgiven for thinking she had called the meeting, for it was the Starks that seemed more on edge.

“I am ready to speak terms of peace,” she said, shocking everyone by speaking first. “I am prepared to plead guilty to the attempted murders of Arya Stark and the others in exchange for clemency.”

Bran nodded. Gendry had given him the papers with the deal late the night prior. He'd expected to wake the King and felt guilty for it, but he found Bran waiting for him. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he always was.

“I do have some terms of my own,” she said. The air stilled at her words. 

“Are you in a position to make demands?” Sansa asked, narrowing her eyes.

“You’ll find them reasonable.” Yara replied, her tone calm and polite. She would not ruin her negotiation by trading barbs with Sansa again. She had come as a Lady of a great house, not a sailor or a sellsword. Arya reluctantly respected her ability to switch back and forth between them when one was needed. “That is why we are here, isn’t it, Your Grace?” she asked, turning to address Bran, “to prove that we are reasonable people?”

“It is,” he confirmed. “We are willing to restore you to your House as a free woman. We are willing to grant the Iron Islands independence in ten years. Are you prepared to be our ally, to set aside all grudges and to bring all disagreements to us by way of raven and not assassins?”

“I am,” she said, “So long as my brother Theon’s bones are returned to his ancestral home. To Pyke.” Sansa’s back stiffened. 

“Indeed a reasonable request,” Bran said, “is it not, sister?”

“It is,” she said, though her jaw was tight, “and it will be done. However his statue will remain in Winterfell’s crypts. Next to Robb.”

“House Stark had a statue made?” 

“No.” Sansa said, a little too quickly, her polite composure slipping just enough for those that knew her well to sense it. “I had a statue made, not House Stark.”

“Keep the statue,” Yara said, then stopped. “Does it look like him?” she asked.

“It looks like him before. I made sure of that.” Yara nodded her silent approval.

“Keep it.” 

“Is that your only term, Lady Greyjoy?” Bran asked.

“No,” she said. “I am the only surviving member of House Greyjoy and have no heir. Should I die before the term of ten years is up, the Islands may fall into chaos. I need your assurances that the person chosen in a proper Kingsmoot will take the throne in the Iron Islands after my death. If I die, the mainland must support the chosen so that the new peace is not threatened by a power struggle among lesser houses.”

“I will have it added to the contract,” Bran swore. “Your heir, chosen by your God, will have the full backing of this Crown whether you die in a year or in fifty. This I swear to you.”

“I believe you will keep your word,” she said, “and your successor will be bound by it as well.”

“Of course. Is this our treaty, then, Lady Greyjoy?”

“I believe it is.”

“Do you swear to keep faith with the treaty we’ve made today, to abide by its terms and the laws of this land until such a time that the Iron Islands are free to create their own?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to keep the peace, to lead no more rebellions and to sanction no murders, and to ensure your people do the same?”

“I do.”

“Then I see no reason for your chains.” Bran said. “Podrick, free Lady Greyjoy, if you will.”

“Aye, my King,” he said, stepping forward, though his eyebrows were twisted together in that way they did when he was nervous, like he had to vomit. He struggled with the locks for a moment before unshackling Yara. She rubbed her wrists as the cuffs were lifted away. 

“Your guards will be dismissed and your room key placed in your own possession from now on, Lady Greyjoy. You are free to move about the city as you please.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, however I intend to check in every now and again, just for my own peace of mind. You did try to kill my sister, My Lady. I accept your peace, but I must remain vigilant. A treaty is only words, and words are but wind. Your actions speak the truth and they remain in question. I will observe on occasion, to listen to what your actions say.”

“I would expect nothing less. I also expect that any aggression against House Stark or either of its Crowns will render the peace treaty void and land me back where I started.”

“Much worse off, I’m afraid. Lord Baratheon’s mercy may have saved your house and the Iron Islands once, but he is not a fool enough to forgive twice and will not come to your aid if you betray that kindness which he has already given you.”

“I have enough wit about me not to keep fighting after I’ve won. Make the changes, have what we discussed in writing and I will sign it on the morrow,” Yara said, pushing her chair back and rising. “You can send for me at one of the taverns on the docks,” she called over her shoulder. “I need a drink.”

The rest of the room sat silently even after Yara Greyjoy left the room. No guards followed her, remaining standing as they were, looking uncomfortable.

“That’s it, then?” Brienne asked. “Just like that?”

“Yes.” Bran replied. “It is done. There will be no more battles, no more dead.”

“If she keeps her word, that is.” Ned Dayne added.

“She will.” Bran said.

“I envy your faith, brother,” said Sansa, shaking her head slightly.

“It is not faith but reason. No one in history was ever offered a fairer deal than hers.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Bronn grumbled, “seeing as we used to punish traitors.”

“We didn’t.” Bran said. “We’ve never punished traitors. If we did, half among us would be rightfully in the iron cells. We punish those who fail, innocent or not, righteous in their claim or not. It has never been our way for the pure to pass judgement against the guilty, but rather for the victor to emerge atop and crush all those beneath. We have never had justice, we have had a means of keeping power. Let them question mine. Let them challenge mine. Let them come and leave, not crushed by it, but granted a share of it.”

“Is that our new justice?” Jon asked. “Sharing?”

“Yes, it is as you have done in your own reign as King in the North, Jon. The new justice of this realm will be to better it. As you granted clemency to the wildlings and brought them over the wall, we grant clemency to those who may have been our enemy and we are stronger for their alliance.”

“That was wartime,” Jon said. “We were fighting one war and preparing for another. We needed the wildlings, then.”

“Winter is coming, dear brother. Winter is always coming, and so is war.”

…

Nicknames were a common thing in Westeros, especially for Lords, and Gendry had received his fair share of them. He’d been called The Lonely Lord, The Smith Lord, The Bastard Baratheon, the Last Storm King, so many others he hadn’t cared to hear. The King had announced publicly that it had been Gendry’s peace treaty, his plan that ended the war and saved the House of Greyjoy from annihilation, and for this they gave him a new name: The Merciful Lord Baratheon. 

He’d heard it from Sansa, who’d heard it whispered by the handmaids, who’d heard it called out by the drunkards in the taverns, who had heard it from the guards. Gendry didn’t know who’d said it first, but he didn’t mind this nickname. It was better than bastard. No one would have ever called Robert Baratheon merciful. Not him, nor Stannis, not even Renly, though his fury did not match that of his brothers. Gendry had escaped the shadow of these men he never knew, he had made his own name, and he liked the sound of the Stormlands being ruled by a merciful Lord. It was a reputation he could use. 

“Should we tell poor Cyrwyn we’ve made him a Lord?” Arya asked, breaking him out of his thoughts. He would never tire of seeing her in only his shirts, hems brushing her thighs, the collars too wide, slipping to show the curve of her neck. She stood at the base of the bed, glancing at him over the papers she’d been reading. The thin shirt was rendered translucent by the late afternoon sun pouring in the window, the silhouette of her body as clear as if she were naked. 

“He’ll probably figure it out when people start bowing.” Gendry said, stretching out on the bed. 

“That’s too cruel,” Arya laughed. “We have to tell him. I’ll go and get him, bring him back so we can make it official before the signing of the treaty tomorrow.”

“What if he doesn’t accept it?” Gendry asked. “You know him best, do you think he will?”

“He’ll be happy to have something for Elin, he’ll be happy to be in a position to protect people. Becoming the second most powerful person in the Iron Islands will take some adjustments, but you adjusted fine. I figure he’ll have an easier time of it than you did.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’ll help him,” she said. “Of course we’ll help him. Why Cyrwyn, by the way? It was your plan, you could have chosen to elevate anyone to the role, why him? I know you two don’t have the easiest of friendships.”

“It needed to be someone loyal. He’s loyal. It needed to be someone who would stand against Greyjoy if the need arose, and he would. It had to be an Iron Islander, or the appointment would be seen as yet more control by the mainland. He was right for the role and he deserved it. For Janna and Elin, for all he’s done for you, for Westeros. A castle seems like fair compensation.” Arya set down the papers and walked around the bed, grasping Gendry’s face and kissing him. He grasped her forearms and kissed her back.

“You’re so smart,” she whispered against his lips. He let out a small laugh, which she swallowed.

“Really? But you’re always calling me stupid.” he said. Arya pulled away and threw her head back in laughter.

“Oh, you’re definitely still stupid,” she laughed, then yelped as he pulled her off her feet, hauling her over him and onto the bed, pinning her underneath him.

“Stupid, huh? Say that again.”

“Stupid. So so so stupid,” she said, wrapping her bare legs around him. “Smartest stupid person I know.” Their laughter grew louder and their kisses grew more heated, interrupted by the clanging of the bells, four times. Gendry groaned, pressing his forehead into Arya’s shoulder. 

“I’m late. I’m meant to be meeting with Tyrion and Sansa and Bran to finish the treaty.”

“You could be later,” Arya said against his throat, leaving a wet trail of kisses there that made him truly consider leaving the two rulers waiting.

“I’ve got to go,” he moaned, making a half-hearted attempt at removing her legs from him.

“When will you come back?” Arya asked, nipping at his jaw.

“Tonight,” he promised. “I’ll sneak away and I’ll come back tonight.” Arya bit down hard on his neck, hard enough to leave an imprint of her teeth, a bruise blossoming even as she pulled away. “Ow! Why in the seven hells…” he stopped mid sentence, looking at her as she shook her head again.

“No,” she said softly. “No more hiding, no more sneaking. Let them see.”

…

Arya sent a guard to fetch Cyrwyn from the inn. She hadn’t seen him since they’d returned to King’s Landing, he’d been so busy seeing to the needs of the crew, and she’d been busy with Greyjoy, they just hadn’t had the time. For this, though, to be told his entire future was changing in an instant, he deserved to be told to his face. Cyrwyn had gotten more comfortable around highborns in Vilinos, being friends with a King and princesses, but the Westerosi Lords still filled him with resentment. He may well turn the appointment down. Arya hadn’t considered that until Gendry mentioned it, but there was a chance.

A growing sense of apprehension filled Arya’s chest after the guard set out to find Cyrwyn. When a knock came at the door a few moments later, Arya lept up to answer it despite it coming far too quick to be Cyrwyn. She pulled the door open and was pushed back inside immediately by Sansa, laughing wickedly.

“So Gendry had quite a bite on his neck at the meeting just now. Blushed like a maiden when I asked about it. Would you know where he got that, sister?”

“I don’t know,” Arya said, examining her fingernails, “ask around the chamber maids, see if one of them did it.” Sansa raised one eyebrow at her sister, then both broke into laughter.

“So the sex is good, then?”

“Sex is fantastic, thanks for asking.”

“It must be. And in the middle of the day no less. I need to ask, is Gendry… proportional to his height? I only ask because, if he is, I’m concerned for your safety, you’re so very small and he’s- OW!” Sansa was cut off by a pillow thrown at her face. 

“Shut up!” Arya laughed “Gendry’s cock is not your business! Don’t you have your own cocks to worry about? I’ve put up with your teasing for months, now, but we haven’t talked about your… dalliances! Haven’t you got any lovers up North, oh beauty?”

“Well… I do, but…” Sansa trailed off with a sly smile.

“But what?”

“They haven’t got cocks.” Arya burst out laughing.

“I should have known you were a girl fucker. All the men you ever fancied were pretty as maidens anyway.” 

“Yes, they were,” Sansa said. “I probably should have realized sooner.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since I first met Margaery Tyrell, I suppose. I thought I loved her because she was kind, at first. That wasn’t it, though. I loved her for a thousand reasons and I miss her terribly.”

“Did I ever meet her?” Sansa shook her head.

“If you had you’d probably be a girl fucker, too.”

“Hmmm.” Arya smirked, turning away to pour a drink.

“ARYA.”

“What?”

“Are you? A girl fucker?”

“Well,” Arya started, “Not a ‘fucker’ as such, but I did kiss Keera sometimes when we were drunk, and that was fun. Just kissing, though.”

“Keera prefers women?”

“She does. Does that interest you? Does she… interest you?” Arya asked, wiggling her eyebrows over her wine.

“Of course she does, I’ve got eyes, don’t I?”

“She’s quite good. Perhaps you ought to go to Vilinos and find out for yourself.”

“That’s quite a distance to travel just to… you know. Besides, it would be strange to kiss the same person as you.” Arya shrugged. 

“Not so strange, we’re only friends. Besides, you’ve already met and you like each other, I don’t think there’s much chance of coming away empty handed. Besides, you’ll probably see a lot of the Vilish royals over the years. It couldn’t hurt to try and see if there’s something more to be had there than friendship.”

“You seem insistent. You think I should, what, court her? The Northern Lords would love that. Which would be worse, do you think? A spinster Queen or one who lies with women?”

“They’ll get over it. And they won’t speak a word against it, they’ll take a lady loving Stark over another any day and the family will support you. You can do as you wish, Sansa. There’s no one with the power to control you anymore. You can have a future with any one you choose, even a woman.” 

“And you think that woman will be Keera?” Arya shrugged.

“I love Keera and I love you. I know Keera and I know you. I think it’s worth exploring, you two have so much in common. And, by the gods, can you imagine the wedding dresses? It’ll be the most elegant thing anyone’s ever seen. People will go blind at the sight of it.”

“Yes? And what of you and Gendry? If you’re planning on having children, they’ll conquer the world on beauty alone.” Arya laughed. “I’m deadly serious. We’ve got Gendry, better looks than even his father in his youth and his uncle Renly, then there’s you, the Great Northern Beauty Lyanna reborn, that is a face wars are fought over. The two of you would make the most beautiful children ever born.”

“I’ll never get used to you calling me pretty.” Arya laughed, shaking her head. “It just sounds strange coming out of your mouth.” Sansa threw her head back and groaned loudly at the ceiling.

“UGH! Gods above I’m soooorry!” she whined. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I was a bitter, jealous child and-”

“Jealous?”

“Yeah.”

“You were jealous of me? Why?” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Because you looked like Lyanna and it made you special and it made father love you more than me. Not love you more, I know he loved us both, but like you more. He liked you more than me.”

“Father loved you. I was always scared mother loved you more than she loved me.”

“She loved you so much, Arya. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, but I was angry that you could be the favorite despite how much you misbehaved, how much you did wrong. I tried to be perfect and no matter what I did it never made father smile like your skinned knees and muddy hair did.”

“Do you think that maybe you worked so hard at being the perfect lady because you knew deep down that there was something different about you and you hoped if you were good enough no one would see it?” Sansa looked a little stunned.

“Maybe. I certainly resented you getting to be different. I thought that if I were perfect I would get good things, that good things happened to good girls who did as they were told.”

“They don’t.”

“I learned.”

“Gods we were stupid children.” Arya laughed.

“Just children, I think. Look, I came to tell you that if Jon sees that bite-” Sansa started, changing the subject.

“He’ll what? He’s got to get used to it someday. Will he still scowl like that when we’re married? He won’t be so annoyed at Gendry being late to things when he gets nieces and nephews out of it.”

“Oh, so this is a ‘when’ scenario, now, is it?”

“Well, yes, of course. Not right now, but one day, sure. Yes.” Arya stammered.

“Does Gendry know?” 

“Of course he knows. He’s not actually stupid.” Arya scoffed.

“But have you told him?”

“Well…”

“Tell him. Ask him to marry you, tell him what you want from him. He’ll follow you around forever, but that isn’t fair to him. You’ve got to tell him so he knows where he stands, so he’s not waiting with, what he thinks to be, false hope.”

“I feel I’ve made an error allowing you two to become friends.”

“Too late, we’re having teas and eating lemoncakes together twice a week. I like him, we are friends. I made an effort because he’s obviously important to you, but now I like him. You two have to get married because if you do not I will be utterly heartbroken.”

A knock came at the door before Arya could retort. 

“That’s Cyrwyn,” she said, “He’s here so we can tell him about the Bannerfort seat.” Sansa nodded, sitting straighter and shaking her laughter off her face, though her smile remained.

“Hey, Cap. Whatcha need?” Cyrwyn said, freezing in the middle of the room when he saw Sansa. “Your Grace,” he said with a small bow.

“Sansa is fine. Any friend of my sister’s is a friend to us all.” Cyrwyn nodded, returning her smile.

“Sit, Cyrwyn,” Arya said, “I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“Anything,” he said, sinking into a chair. “You know that. Anything you need.”

“Don’t agree right away. This is a more permanent type of favor. We’ve come to an agreement with Greyjoy, and, although we are restoring her to her house, we need a check to her power. With the Iron Islands granted independence, they are also being gifted the Bannerfort lands for farming. We need a Lord to sit in that seat, protect the people, and serve as a deterrent to further rebellion. We fully believe that you are the best person for that task.”

“But I’m not a Lord.”

“You could be,” Sansa said. “One piece of paper is all it takes. You would be a Lord, your wife and daughter Ladies, the castle on the coast would be yours, it would pass to your daughter, her children after her.”

“You’re the most loyal person I know, Cyrwyn, and the only one I trust to stand up against Greyjoy. Without a good man in that seat, the farmers would be no better than slaves. Someone has got to protect them.”

“You’re telling me you want to give me a castle, a Lordship, a legacy for my kid, I get to be a hero, and I get to tell Greyjoy where to shove it?”

“Well, yeah.” 

“Shit, I’d do that last part for free. Why not? It sounds better than working for other people for the rest of my life.”

“Lovely, thank you.” Sansa said. “You’ll have good advisors, of course, although your experience leading ships will definitely be a benefit. What is your last name, Cyrwyn, for the document?”

“It’s Seavers, Your Grace.”

“I will have the papers written up and ready to sign prior to the treaty signing tomorrow, Lord Seavers,” Sansa said, rising and gathering her papers, making for the door. “I truly cannot thank you enough,” she said from the doorway. “Your service to the Kingdoms is unmatched, we will not forget it.”

As the door closed behind her, Cyrwyn looked at Arya and let out a deep breath.

“What have I agreed to? To be a Lord?”

“It’s not so different from being a captain. You take care of people, keep track of things, keep people from fighting. You’ll be good at it.”

“I’m never going to get used to that “My Lord” bullshit.” Arya laughed. 

“Good. Don’t forget who you are. Take the new power and make the world better, don’t let the power change you.” Arya placed one hand on Cyrwyn’s shoulder. “You’ll be good at this, I know you will.” 

“Not if it involves being all nice to highborns. Your family is one thing, Ar, but the rest of them? Won’t I have to, I don’t know, interact with them? Make them like me?” Arya shrugged.

“Not when you’re as powerful as you are, High Lord Seavers. True power allows one to be eccentric. Or terrible, but that isn’t much of a concern with you. No one will raise complaints if you break the rules, there will simply be new rules.”

“I suppose it won’t be too different, then. Different job, same man.”

“Thank the gods for that.”

…

The signing of a treaty is a dreadfully boring affair. The war is won, the details agreed to, it’s just pomp and performance, a chance for warring parties to be seen together, shaking hands and faking smiles. This was Sansa’s realm of expertise, and they all deferred to her. 

“I don’t know why I have to be here.” Jon grumbled, pulling at the collar of the grey velvet doublet Sansa had forced him to wear. Sansa slapped his hand away.

“Do not stretch that out. I’ve been very patient with you, Jon, you’ve been through a lot, but it’s time to stop shirking your responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities? What responsibilities?” Jon asked. Sansa rolled her eyes.

“The heir to the North is actually supposed to help, but I've been doing everything while you run around with your wildling friends and-”

“Heir? I’m not the heir, I can’t be, I’m still banished.” Sansa looked at him, her face scrunched in utter confusion.

“No, you’re not. Why do you think nobody has arrested you, you daft fucking pie? Because banished people walk around King’s Landing and spar with the Captain of the Guard? You were pardoned four years ago, as soon as Daenerys’s army left.”

“Nobody told me that!” Jon yelled, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Bullshit. I sent several ravens.” Sansa retorted, crossing her arms.

“And you never thought it odd you never got a reply?” Jon asked. “It’s North of the Wall, Sansa, something probably fucking ate them!”

“I just assumed you were still brooding.” Sansa said, making Arya snort. Jon whipped around, pointing at Arya.

“Why isn’t she your heir? I already did my time, make her do it, she’s the Stark!”

“No, no, do not bring me into this,” Arya said, raising her hands and backing away. “I don’t want it.”

“Firstly, I named you Jon Stark when I pardoned you. Secondly, if I needed an heir you’d be far easier to find up North than Arya would be in the middle of the fucking ocean. Thirdly, you’ve been King before which makes your help and your counsel valuable to me. Now do your damned job.” 

“You couldn’t let me have my retirement?” Jon asked.

“You aren’t even thirty, Jon,” Sansa said, rolling her eyes again. “You’ve a few more years to go before retirement.”

“Your graces,” Ned Dayne interrupted, sticking his head out of the throne room door and into the hall. “it’s time.”.

“Smile, Jon. And stop fiddling with your shirt.”

...

The four of them entered the throne room, Yara already seated across from Bran, Gendry seated next to Cyrwyn and Davos. They filed into their seats silently, their side of the table a considerable show of force against Yara, who sat alone, yet unafraid. 

The peace treaty was passed down the table, signed by each of them in turn. Bran and Yara were the last to sign. It was over rather quickly, just a drop of ink, a flick of the wrist, is that all it took? Gendry remembered the fallen at Winterfell, how tall the pyres were. He remembered the fallen in Riverrun, hundreds of white shrouded corpses lined up in the grass. What was this parchment to the fallen? What were these words to those that died for them? Is this how war ended, not with the battle but with the sound of scratching quills on parchment? What a boring end to all their horrors. 

“With this treaty signed and witnessed, let it be known that the Iron Islands are, once more, allies of the realm.” Bran called. The crowd that filled the throne room clapped and cheered, the common folk and the gentry alike. Rumors of uprising had put fears into the hearts of all those just starting to rebuild their lives. This treaty has eased those fears. “I propose a toast to, now Lady, soon Queen, Yara Greyjoy,” Bran started, raising his glass. “May the peace outlive us.”

“May the peace outlive us!” The table called together, all rising, save Bran, and lifting their cups into the air.

…

Sansa closed the door to her solar behind her. She poured herself a glass of wine with shaking hands, closing her eyes as she took a sip. She set the wine down on the side table, abandoning it. She walked over to her balcony, leaning over the edge to look out over the city at sunset. ‘ _ Fuck ths place _ .’ She thought. She couldn’t stand to be here any longer. Even rebuilt, the Red Keep was far too familiar in the most painful ways. She’d walk down corridors and suddenly feel a tightness in her chest, as though she were a little girl again and any minute now she would hear Cersei’s cruel laughter ring out or turn a corner and see Joffrey standing there, waiting for her. All these years and she was still not free of them. She wished to be home in Winterfell. Now that the chance of war was averted she could go home, but she’d be alone there. The idea of that hurt, too. Sansa knew Arya would not come back with her, not for long. Jon wouldn't, either. He’d pop in and out on his whims, gallivanting around the North, free from duty. They were all free from duty, Arya with her island and her ships, Jon with his travels and his friends, even Bran was free to see what he wanted, go where he wanted and trust that others would do what needed to be done. Perhaps Arya was right, Sansa should go to Vilinos, see the island and leave Jon on the Northern throne for a few months. Was it too selfish to consider?

Sansa jumped as the door opened. She turned, expecting to excuse some handmaid, but found Tyrion instead. 

“You ought to knock,” she said.

“I came to check if you were alright. I can see that working with Greyjoy is distressing for you. You left rather quickly after the signing, I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” Sansa said firmly. “I’m tired, Tyrion. Leave me be.” He walked forward anyway, hands behind his back as he walked, looking at her. He was sober. He was worse when he was sober.

“I’m very proud of you, you know?”

“Shouldn’t you be telling Bran? You’re his hand,” she said as she looked out at the city. It was one of these balconies that Tommen had jumped from, she realized. He’d lived on this floor. She leaned out a little, looking side to side, but could not recall which bedroom had been his. She could probably pick it out walking down the hall, his door was clawed at the bottom, marks left by his kittens over the years. Or had they made him move to another room when he became King? She didn’t know.

“I have told him, but I’ve known you longer. Better, too. You’ve done incredible work as Queen, Sansa. This new world you and your siblings are making, kindness and forgiveness, it is something to be proud of. I should not be surprised by it, you were such a kind child.” Sansa sighed.

“You’re mistaken, Tyrion. This was not my idea. It belongs only to Gendry and Bran. I was never as kind as you thought I was. I didn’t make this new world, I’m not even sure I deserve it.”

“Of course you deserve it,” Tyrion said. “We all deserve peace, you most of all,” he placed his hand over hers on the railing and she snatched it away, turning away from the balcony, walking quickly back inside. She wiped her hands off on her skirt absentmindedly, then reached for her wine before stopping herself. She wasn’t Cersei. She didn’t need it. “Why don’t you think you deserve it?”

“Despite everything, despite what it did to me, I was good at the games and the schemes. I liked them, in the end. I liked winning. That has no place anymore. The things I did… If the Gods are just, than I will never know peace or rest. That would be justice.”

“Sansa, this is nonsense. You were a good child in a terrible world, this is not your fault. Besides,” he said with a laugh, “if your sins are too great for the new world, then I don’t deserve it either.” Sansa did not laugh.

“I’m not arguing. We don’t belong here, Tyrion. Not me and certainly not you.” 

“But we’re here anyway, should we not take the opportunity given to us? Find joy despite the guilt?”

“That’s precisely what I expected you to say,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “That’s how you think. ‘What can I take for myself, how can I take advantage?’ You are possibly the most selfish, self-serving man in Westeros. Were I a man, the title may be up for contention, but as I’m not, it is yours.”

“I hardly think that’s fair,” Tyrion said, “there are plenty worse than I.”

“Truly? Tell me one thing you’ve done for another, one selfless act.”

“I protected you from Joffrey.” Sansa scoffed.

“Not for my benefit. That was about you and Joffrey. If you had any interest in my welfare, I would have left the city as soon as he executed my father. Don’t pretend it wasn’t within your power. It was, but it held no reward for you.”

“But once we were married-”

“But what? You defended me as a matter of pride, then. My maltreatment was an insult to you, to your honor, and your honor mattered more than some naive little girl. Do you think you protected me from the duties of marriage? Are you proud of that? You refrained from being a child rapist, how noble. You are truly a shining light of morality.”

“Comparable to the rest!” Tyrion defended. “And why does it matter if there were two reasons? It is the act that matters, is it not? As my wife you were sheltered from the worst of what Joffrey would have done. That is the truth.”

“It matters,” Sansa said coldly. “It matters because I didn’t matter to you. Admit it. I was a pawn to you and that was all. If I weren’t useful you would have never given my suffering a second thought.” Tyrion sighed angrily.

“If!” he groaned, “why do we waste our breath on ‘if’? If you were a handmaid and not Ned Stark's daughter would I have protected you? No, I would not. No one else would have, either. Am I to be held accountable for this? For this wrong I might have committed if things were different?”

“You don’t even see! You don’t see what is wrong with that! I was nothing to you until I left and I found my own power. Without you. I was not a person to you until I earned it. You only respect those you think to be your equals, and with the high opinion you hold of yourself you hardly respect anyone.”

“I did not recognize your potential at thirteen, I admit that, but you are overstating the rest.”

“That’s how you see everyone else, puppets with strings you can pull. They exist to amuse you or further your little plots and your schemes, and if they don’t serve well they are cast aside in favor of better puppets. You sit in your castles with your wine and your sly looks, thinking you know more than everyone and you use that knowledge for yourself. You are a smart man, Tyrion, imagine what you could do if you wanted to. You are the hand of the King! You ought to serve the realm, but I haven’t seen it. Do you give any thought to the people? Can you see that far outside your own wants? Are the taxes too high in Flea Bottom? Do the farmers in the Reach need seed subsidies from Vilinos or Essos this year? How many farmers? Where do the seeds go? You don’t even know. Such a thinker and you think only of yourself. A waste. What is the point of you?”

“What is the point? I have served Kings and Queens and advised them longer than you have lived.”

“To what end? Is the realm any better for you? You still haven’t been able to tell me, Tyrion. What have you done in your life that hasn’t been for your own satisfaction?”

“You were my wife for months and I never took ‘satisfaction’ from you, shall we start there?” Sansa’s chest filled with anger. 

“The most basic act of human decency and you expect, what? My undying gratitude? That I should kiss your feet and weep like a maiden from song? Do you fancy yourself a rescuer knight? I will not thank you for not raping me, Tyrion. I want you to leave, now.”

“No, I don’t think we are finished with-”

“Now,” Sansa ordered. “Leave or I will have you removed. Do not forget yourself, My Lord Hand.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Tyrion said harshly, his formal tone cutting.

Tyrion did as he was told, slamming the door behind him. 

…

The bonfires roared in the courtyard and the drumbeat shook the evening air, driving the rhythm into the chests of the revelers. Drink flowed freely, and toasts to peace called out over the music, hopeful voices rising up above the strife and fear that had silenced them. This celebration was one of many in the city that night. From the top of Aegon’s High Hill, one could see fires burning all over the city, not for destruction but for warmth and light. People gathered around the fires, merchants sharing drinks with Lords and orphans, celebrating the knowledge that a future they built would not end in war. This was a new type of peace. It was not that the enemy was too crushed to carry on, licking their wounds to rise up again. It was not that the highborns fought wars with money and trade and taxes, just as many poor dying as if they’d been sent to battle. This was a truer peace. There had been ceasefires before, there had been treaties before, but never before had two great families entered a conflict against each other and emerged willing allies. This new world was worth celebrating.

Every man and woman and child in the city dared to hope it would last.

Drinks flowed and friends gathered together, making merry before they all went home again. As Gendry sat near his own bonfire, listening to Ned Dayne and Cyrwyn laughing together about something, his heart twisted up in his chest. Was he the only man that lemented the end? He’d wanted it, pleaded for it, but now that it was here he wished he had just a moment longer. He wasn’t ready to go back to Storm’s End alone. He’d been too slow, hadn’t had the time to convince Arya to come back with him, or let him come with her. He didn’t even know where she was going next. Vilinos? Winterfell? He did not know and that made his chest ache. How pitiful, to be lonely before one is left. How was he meant to hold her when he was bracing himself for her absence? 

“Lord Seavers!” Arya called, bounding up with reddened cheeks and clapping Cyrwyn’s shoulders. “You pick house words or a cigil yet?” Cyrwyn’s face scrunched up.

“Nobody told me I hadda pick words, too!” he slurred. “I don’t wanna pick something stupid.”

“Can’t be worse than what’s already out there,” Arya said, sitting down on Gendry’s lap, one arm slung around his neck, leaning comfortably into his shoulder as his hand settled immediately on her hip. “I mean, there’s some terrible sigils. Dalt’s just lemons, isn’t it? And Buckler? Buckles? No originality there at all.”

“The sigil I got figured out,” he said, waving her off. 

“Oh yeah?” Gendry asked, trying not to focus on Arya’s loose hair tickling his neck, smelling like seasalt and the sweet oils she used.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be the Nym. A direwolf ship at sea.”

“That’s perfect!” Arya said, clutching her chest. “I love it!”

“I’m gonna let Janna pick the words,” Cyrwyn said, downing his drink. “She’ll pick somethin’ better than I could.”

“If it were up to you, your house words would be ‘Pass the Ale’.” Arya laughed, causing Ned to snicker.

“Now that’s not bad,” Cyrwyn said, “however at the moment I’m partial to “Fuck You.”

“As house words?” Ned asked, laughing. “The Great House Cyrwyn. Fuck You. You know what? I like it, it works.”

“Oi!” Jon yelled as he stumbled over with Davos trailing behind. “Why?” he asked, waving his free hand at Gendry and Arya, sloshing a bit of ale on the ground. “Are there not enough chairs? I’ll fetch more chairs!” 

“No, thank you, brother,” Arya said, wiggling herself somehow deeper into Gendry’s lap, “I’m quite comfortable here.” Gendry blushed a bit and gripped Arya’s hip a little tighter in warning. Ned snorted into his cup.

“Fine” Jon said, sitting down hard on the ground and glaring into his cup. “Sit where you want.”

“I will.” Arya said.

“Actually,” Davos said, sounding apologetic, “May I borrow Gendry, Princess?”

“Only for you, Davos,” she said, standing up. Gendry planted a kiss on her cheek with a wary look to Jon before following Davos. He could hear their laughter fading as he walked with Davos away from the crowds.

“You don’t look like you’re celebrating,” Gendry said once they were far enough away to hear each other.

“No time for drinking, I’m afraid,” Davos said, shrugging with his empty hands. “I’ve got to get back to work, I’m leaving for Vilinos before dawn.”

“What? It’s so soon, surely a day won’t hurt.”

“We’ve lost months already, we should’ve had shipping lanes established by now and we don’t even have a single Vilish sailor trained or ship built. The work needs to be done before winter or we won’t have their crops to see us through. No time to waste, I’m afraid.”

“Your mind never strays from duty, does it? Even for a moment?” Davos laughed.

“The duty of a father is never done. I’ve got to see my children fed, see them safely home. That little girl of Cyrwyn’s is waiting on him, I’ve got to bring her back. I can’t have you and yours starve when the winter comes and we’ve spent the summer just rebuilding the fields, not even able to start sowing and growing.”

“How, exactly, did you end up a father to the nation?” Gendry asked.

“When the nation started being run by you children, I suppose. I just might be the oldest shit left in seven kingdoms, and none of you have any parents left besides, someone’s got to do it.”

“You’re the only father I’ve ever known, Davos, and I wouldn’t have it otherwise. You’ll travel safely, won’t you? And come back soon?”

“As soon as I’m able. I wouldn’t want to miss any weddings.” Gendry let out a strangled mix of groan and laughter, burying his face in his hands. “I’m just saying,” Davos said, raising his hands, “You won’t know the answer till you ask.”

“I did, Davos. I did ask and she gave me an answer. I’ve got to respect the answer I got.”

“Four years is a long time, son. Especially for young people. Especially during a war. Are you avoiding the question because you’re scared the answer hasn’t changed or because you’re scared it has?” Gendry sighed. 

“It just… it doesn’t seem like a good idea to push it.”

“Maybe we get a few more drinks in you and it’ll sound like a good idea,” Davos laughed, nudging Gendry with his elbow. 

“Don’t joke about that,” Gendry groaned.

“Too soon? Wounds still fresh? It’s been four years, son. Ask.”

“You just want grandchildren, don’t you, you meddling old man?” Gendry mocked.

“You bet your ass,” Davos nodded. “Now get back to your party, I’ve got more packing to do.”

“You’ll come and say goodbye before you leave?”

“You may not remember it, with the rate of the ale into you, but I’ll say goodbye.” Davos promised, clapping Gendry on the shoulder before walking away. Gendry turned to return to the bonfires, stopping short to see Yara Greyjoy emerging from the shadows, a large bag slung over her shoulder.

“You're leaving, too?” he asked.

“Ship for Pyke leaves in an hour,” She said. “It doesn’t feel like I should be here, sullying their party with my presence.”

“You’re not the enemy anymore. You can stay. You can drink with us, toast the peace with us. It’s your peace, too.” Yara laughed.

“It doesn’t mean I’m welcome. It’s better that I go, I just wanted to thank you. When you make a play like I did, you expect to win or die. I didn’t expect to live once the Dornish caught me. You young people play by some new rules.”

“I think it’s an entirely different game, actually.” Gendry said.

“Hopefully I’ll learn to play it, too,” Yara said. “Hopefully the old game is forgotten. Nobody won at that, not really.”

“So you don’t think us soft? Weak?” Gendry laughed.

“No,” Yara admitted, “not weak. You had me beat fairly. Outsmarted, outmaneuvered, outmanned. I lost. Now I underestimated you, and that was my error. You trust that you can beat me again if I get out of line, you probably could, and I’m confident enough to say I can’t be beaten by weak men. I don’t know what you lot are. Weak isn’t it, though.”

“Travel safely, Greyjoy.” Gendry said, extending his hand to her. “Count the Stormlands among your allies, if you can?”

“I’ll try to ignore the ghost of my father when he comes to haunt me for allying myself with a Baratheon,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. 

“I think even my father’s ghost has disowned me. I’ve never been so happy to be a disappointment.” Yara laughed, releasing Gendry’s hand and turning to walk away.

“Only a disappointment to some, Baratheon,” she called over her shoulder.

Gendry was left standing by himself in the darkness for a moment. Realizing, with disappointment, that he was only half drunk, he went in search of more ale. He found a table stacked tall with pitchers and mugs, so he filled himself another ale and took a savoring sip. It was dark this far from the bonfires, close enough to hear the laughter and the sounds of mingling voices but not so close that you could hear who was saying what. He liked the feeling of it, like the sounds washed over his mind, not sticking, not heard, just swirling in the air around him. If he wanted he could focus on a voice in the crowd, bring himself back to the moment, but instead he closed his eyes and listened to them all at once, rocking slightly on unsteady feet in the darkness. They were like music, the sounds of drums and voices and cups all together as one, making a single song together. A song of peace.

He really ought to get back. There was no telling what trouble they would all get into. Or they’d go to bed and Gendry would miss it all. Either way, he ought to find them again. He downed his drink and refilled it, snagging a full jug of ale just in case there wasn’t more to be had. He set off, weaving around the bonfires and the smiling strangers. He saw a familiar face in the firelight. Sansa, alone, leaning against a tree with a cup of wine. She didn’t look like she was enjoying the party. She didn’t even look like she was at a party.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as he approached. “You look sad.”

“Hi, Gendry,” she said. “Are you having a nice time?”

“None of that, you don’t have to do that,” he said, shaking his head. “You look like something’s bothering you, what is it?”

“I called someone selfish today,” she said.

“Were they?” Gendry asked.

“Yes, but so am I. I am no better. I yelled like I had a right to be angry, as if I’m not the same.”

“I’m sorry, what do you think you’ve done?” Gendry asked, his eyebrows pinched together in that look Arya always made fun of him for.

“I’m selfish, Gendry. Self centered, self serving.”

“Not your fault. You’re a highborn,” he teased, “that’s just how they are.”

“I don’t want to be. I didn’t care about people. I liked people that helped me, I hated people who didn’t. I didn’t think of anyone other than myself. Everyone said I was kind, a pure, sweet little girl, but I wasn’t. I was selfish.”

“All children are selfish. And it was war, the only way to survive is to be single minded. It’s not your fault.”

“You don’t understand. I was attacked once in Flea Bottom, when Joffrey was King. There were riots over food, people were starving. I didn’t care, not until I was in the middle of them. I would have given them bread if I’d had any on me at the time. I would have been kind if it was convenient, but it wasn’t. Once I was safe in the Red Keep again, I never gave them another thought. I was worried about pretty dresses and if Joffrey would still like me, if I would get to be Queen, if Cersei still liked me. I’m not different from the rest of them, Gendry,” she said, a small tear slipping out from her eye, “I wish I were, I want to be, I’m not.”

“Gods, Sansa. You were, what? Fourteen?” Gendry said. “ and you’ve held that guilt all this time? You didn’t know any better. Now you do. Most people go about their lives with no remorse for who they used to be. Only good people feel shame. It means they’ve grown past their errors, that they can see their wrongs. All of us were focused on ourselves, whatever survival meant for us at the time. I killed and stole, you wore dresses. I don’t see the difference. It’s all armor in the end.”

“There’s no excuse for it.” Sansa said.

“Perhaps not, but we move forward and we learn. Once, while running, I begged Arya to leave weaker people behind, to abandon them and go off on our own. We’d be faster and stronger on our own, with less dead weight and fewer mouths to feed. Orphans, young children, injured people, I didn’t care. She refused and I’m glad for that, because dear friends would certainly be dead if she’d listened to me and I would have to carry the guilt of it. I’m ashamed of what I did, that I was willing to let other people die to make my journey easier. I own that shame, and I carry it with me as a lesson. I won’t leave people behind again. And you won’t ever forget about the struggles of others. I’ve seen you lead, you’re the one who thinks of how long the food will last, what villages sit in the path of armies. You’re the one who lets the army heal before sending them to fight again. You’re the one who protects the women and the children when the crypts rise up. Don’t pretend you haven’t learned.”

Sansa pressed her forehead into the side of Gendry’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Gendry,” she said softly. “I’m so glad you’re joining our family, I can’t imagine us without you, now.” She felt Gendry’s muscles tighten slightly at that. She raised her head to look at him, but he walked away, pulling her with him before she could press the subject.

“Come on, we should find the others before they get worried. I’ve been gone a while.” he said. Sansa let him pull her along. He heard Arya’s laughter and made straight for it, picking their group out from among the many bonfires. Cyrwyn and Arya were talking, their heads leaned close together. Sam had joined Jon, Brienne and Pod were chatting with Ned Dayne. They all looked happy.

“Look who I found!” Gendry called, pushing Sansa forward.

“Where’ve you been?” Jon asked, “not still working, are you?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you pulled your weight,” she said. 

“You, sweet sister, are a bigger nag than your mother.” Jon said, patting the side of Sansa’s offended face. It was more of a gentle slap, he was very drunk. “Let me tell you all a secret about Sansa,” Jon slurred, “When she was a little girl, Sansa was so annoying, I thought about drowning her in the Godswood river and telling everyone she fell in.” Arya covered her mouth to try and stop her laughter. 

“When Jon was younger,” Sansa said, placing her arm across his shoulder, “he had a love, deeper than his love for his family.” Jon looked at her, confused. She moved quickly to trap his neck in her elbow, “his hair,” she said as she rubbed her fist into his head furiously, everyone laughing at his indignant yells and desperate attempts to escape. He finally wiggled free, his glorious curls ruined, a frizzy, tangled mess in their place. He glared at her, desperately trying to smooth them.

“Oh, no, Sansa!” Arya exclaimed, “you know not to touch the hair!”

“Wait, wait, Arya, come here!” Sansa yelled, grabbing Jon by the collar and dragging him closer. Arya leapt to her feet and leaned in, looking where Sansa was pointing. “What is that?”

“Seven hells!” Arya laughed, covering her mouth.

“What?” Jon yelled, confused and alarmed, his head bent down at an awkward angle.

“It’s a  _ grey hair! _ ” Sansa laughed. “Jon is old!”

“OLD MAN!” Arya yelled, squishing Jon’s face between her hands. Jon fought and tried to wiggle out of their grasp, but he tripped and fell on his backside. THis sisters pounced, pulling and poking at his face, laughing at the lines forming as he scowled.

“This one is from frowning!” Sansa said, pointing to the crease between his eyebrows.

“Ah yes, his pouting line. Deep.” Arya nodded. 

“I’ve only got grey hairs because of you two!” Jon yelled, attempting once more to shake them off. “I’m going to bed!” he shouted, stomping away.

“Ah, yes,” Gendry said, coming to stand behind Arya. “I have heard that the elderly tend to retire early.” Sansa’s face lit up with pure joy and Arya snorted. Jon whipped around.

“You watch yourself, Baratheon!” he said, unable to keep an angry expression. “Fuck you all,” he laughed, “I’m going to bed.” Sam followed after Jon, and Gendry had a feeling they were going to continue drinking somewhere.

They continued to drink after Jon left, retiring one by one. Brienne left first, saying she had to be fit for patrols in the morning. Podrick left with her, ever the loyal squire no matter how many years he’d been a knight. Cyrwyn went to find Davos, to hand him the coin Keenan had given Arya and all the letters he’d written for Janna and Elin. Elin couldn’t read yet, or she hadn’t when he’d left her on Vilinos, but perhaps Keera had taught her. If not, Janna would read them to her. He’d written every day. During the siege at Riverrun his letters were shortest, just a scrap of paper. “ _ I’ve lived. I love you. I’ll see you soon. _ ” He hadn’t wanted her to think he’d abandoned her again. 

Cyrwyn had thought Lords did as they pleased, but his first real disappointment came when he could not travel back to Vilinos himself to get Janna and Elin. They wouldn’t be able to come until at least a spare ship had been made and a crew for it trained, and Cyrwyn couldn’t be spared for that much time. They had to establish him as the Lord of the Iron Coast, as it was to be called. It was crucial, and he understood his duty, but every day apart his daughter grew taller, older, without him. Thank the Gods it was Davos going, who understood and who he knew he could trust. 

Arya leaned into Gendry’s shoulder, nursing her own ale, listening to Ned Dayne and Sansa talk about Dornish water gardens and lemon trees. Ned promised to send a crate of lemons up to Winterfell every winter for her, although he was so in his cups he may not remember the promise by morning. 

“You know, Your Grace, I was named for your father,” Ned said. Gendry snorted.

“No you weren’t. Your name’s fucking ‘Edric’.” 

“I’m trying to be charming, don’t be an ass.” Ned whispered loudly, leaning over towards Gendry. Gendry laughed again. Arya and Sansa shared a quieter chuckle, exchanging the kind of eye contact that women do when they know something men do not. 

Remembering the rest of their conversation from earlier, Sansa shot a pointed look at Gendry, returning to Arya’s gaze. “ _ Talk to him _ .” she said wordlessly. 

“It’ll be dawn, soon,” Sansa said, faking a yawn. “I must at least attempt sleep.” she rose and squeezed Arya and Gendry’s hands as she passed them. Ned rose as well.

“Allow me to walk you back, Your Grace,” he said, offering his arm. “It is time I retire as well.” Sansa smiled and took his arm graciously, leaving Arya and Gendry alone by the dying fire. If they looked around, they would notice that they were the last people awake in the courtyard. Some had not made it back to their rooms, sleeping in the grass or against trees, but no revelers were left. The distant calls of celebrations still ongoing rose up from the city below, the only noise in the darkness. Arya pulled her knees up and leaned further into Gendry, stealing his warmth. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. 

“It feels odd, it being over,” he said. “What a boring end to war. Barely even a war. One battle.”

“May the gods bless us with boring times,” Arya said. “You know, it’s funny, this same thing happened last time.”

“What?”

“We were so busy, so preoccupied trying not to die, we never got a chance to talk.”

“We talk every day,” Gendry said, confused.

“Not about the important things.”

“What important things?”

“The future,” Arya said. Gendry froze. “Our future.” Gendry took a deep breath. He had to know.

“What do you want it to be?” he asked. 

“You.” Arya said. “Nothing else matters, nothing else means anything, I just want to be with you, we’ll figure out the rest.” Gendry turned Arya in his lap so she faced him, straddling his lap, and grasped her face between his hands. He could smell the ale on her breath. “Do you still want to get married?” she asked. Gendry pressed his forehead into hers, closing his eyes so tightly they hurt.

“I didn’t think you wanted that. If you don’t, I’m okay, you don’t have to just because I-” Arya cut him off with a quick kiss.

“I was young, I didn’t know who I was, and I didn’t think I’d live much longer,” she said. “I wanted you, I just didn’t want to hurt you. It’s different, now,” she said, placing her hands over his. “I won’t leave again, I don’t want to die. I want to live, I want to build a life together. Do you want that, too?” she asked, her voice shaking just a little. Gendry realized she was nervous. She was as nervous as he was. He kissed her deeply.

“I want that,” he said against her lips. “I want to live each day with you, I want to travel the world with you, see what you’ve seen.” He pulled back a tiny bit, just far enough to look into her eyes. “I never want another war, but if the time comes to ride into battle again, I want you by my side.” Arya kissed him again. 

“I love you,” she said.

“Is that a yes?” 

“I think I asked, actually,” she laughed. “Yes.”

“Yes,” he said. “I love you. Yes.”

As Gendry held Arya, he did not fear it would be the last time, despite how the thought tormented him each time before. As he held her, he thought to the future, the adventures they’d share, the troubles they’d face together, the life they would have. He had spent his youth never expecting to live through the year, sometimes fearing he wouldn’t live the night. Now, as he felt Arya’s heartbeat through her chest as she pressed into him, he silently begged whatever gods could hear to let him grow old, to let them grow old together.

As the bonfires crumbled to embers all throughout the city, two lovers, soon to be of legend, clung to each other in the moonlight. A hundred years from then, a thousand, maybe, songs would be sung of the Wolf and the Bull, the Lightbringer and the Lord of Mercy. The songs would say that the love between them had brought an age of peace that continued even still. The songs would say that they had brought each other hope when they ought to be hopeless, that had given the other the will to fight, despite the insurmountable odds they had faced. They had lent each other strength, their bond unbreakable, their love eternal. The lovers had faced the darkness together, and, in the end, the darkness did not win. 


End file.
